


Hold Onto This Heaven (of Yours)

by TinyBeautifulTales



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Louis, College AU, M/M, frat boy AU, lots of smut, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22168297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyBeautifulTales/pseuds/TinyBeautifulTales
Summary: an ode to being too young, too sad, and too in love.(aka: a college au, harry is a frat boy, and louis wants to know all of his secrets.)
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 145





	Hold Onto This Heaven (of Yours)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Enjoy this, I've been writing it on and off for years. Next, I'm going to finish of SOA AU. Let me know if you have any comments or concerns at the end. 
> 
> THE ITALICS ARE THE DIALOGUE

_ Tell me a secret.  _

Inside this room, the sound of the party has faded. Harry, curled up with his knees pulled towards his chest, has never been more thankful for that. He thinks that this, his slow blink and faded smile, should be enough of a secret for whoever this person is. This party is his, after all, and he is ditching it in exchange for lying in the silence of his dark wood sleigh bed amidst white sheets. 

_ I could lie to you,  _ but he doesn’t think he will, doesn’t think he even wants to. This boy has blue eyes like the sky and pink lips, bitten and soft looking, and he is all angles. Harry has never wanted to know someone so badly before. He hasn’t cared to know someone in a long time. 

_ I don’t think you will.  _

_ But— _

_ Don’t all frat boys have secrets?  _

Harry’s first reaction is to ask this boy how he could possibly know that. It isn’t as if he advertises it. To be honest, he hates everything the school, hates a lot of the people, hates the uppity culture of it all. He’s never as happy as he is locked in his small, drafty room with his guitar. Just as he’s opening his mouth to say the words though, he remembers that stupid portrait his father’d demanded they get taken. Gem, her hair carefully styled back into a sleek ponytail, wearing a dress without any rips or studs, thanks. Anne smiling stiffly, Des’ hand heavy on his shoulder. The stupid blazer. 

_ Tell me a secret,  _ the boy repeats, blue eyes hazy. 

He shrugs, feeling the cold air turn his skin goose pimpled under his Ramones shirt. ‘ _ M not very interesting.  _

The boy tilts his head to the side. _ I don’t believe you.  _

_ ‘M Harry.  _

He scoffs, pouting out his lower lip.  _ Names don’t count unless you’re a felon.  _

Harry is helpless against the laugh that bubbles up out of his throat. He claps a hand over his mouth almost immediately, blushing high along his cheeks at how ungraceful his guffaw is. His belly laugh feels good, deep and settled and warm, and he still wants to know the small boy with sharp teeth and sharp collarbones and pretty eyelashes in the warm grey jumper.  _ You want me to be a murderer?  _

_ I’d settle for arson.  _ He says after a moment of deliberation, lower lip caught under the points of his little white canine teeth.  _ Maybe even petty theft.  _

_ Don’t really have time for much of anything but homework, do I?  _

The boy’s blue eyes narrow in a scowl. _ D’you have time to jack off?  _

Harry’s cheeks heat into a ruby blush. Making an aborted, small, embarrassed noise, he buries his nose into his white pillow. His mom has somehow managed to leave behind the smell of Burberry, and he can’t decide if it’s the whole talking about getting himself off with a stranger or talking about it in a bed that smells like his mom, but he’s unable to speak around the embarrassment bubbling in his throat.

A laugh stumbles out of the smaller boy’s mouth, _ What’s all this?  _

_ Nothing. _

_ ‘S definitely something, _ he’s chiding Harry gently, an indulgent smile turning up the corners of his mouth. The noise swells outside the door, someone’s crashing down the hallway, and he’s not even flinching in his appraisal of Harry’s face,  _ are you into kiddie porn or something?  _

Harry chokes on the  _ no! _ he lets out. 

Blue eyes narrowed again, the boy pokes at his wrist,  _ You’ve still not told me a secret. _

Snorting, Harry turns to face the boy head on again.  _ You’ve still not told me your name.  _

At school, everyone is about the surface level: appearing a certain way, nose tipped up to the sky and down to their books, never any in between. The way that this boy, with his languid blinks and his rumpled jumper, laughs, lets Harry know that he can’t have been here for long enough for that to happen. Something thrums dangerously alongside Harry’s pulse. That same desire to get to know this person, to see how this person could fit within the jumbled mess of his life right now. 

_ Louis,  _ the boy finally murmurs.

_ Like the king?  _ Unbidden, Harry gets a picture of the King Louis the Sixteenth, the Sun King, but instead of the droll man wearing too many jewels and too much fur, there is only this boy: his quirked lips, his white teeth, the soft wave of hair over his forehead. Harry thinks that he would’ve liked history a lot more if all the boys looked like this.

Louis, smirking, says _ Does this work on all of the boys?  _

He’s blushing again. Unable to face Louis, he hides back in his mum’s pillow. It’d be a good secret, maybe: my dad expects me to marry a beautiful girl and take over the family company, but Harry doesn’t want to talk about it, spends most of his time trying his very hardest to ignore it. 

Small, tentative fingers skip up over his wrist and press into his pulse, _ Tell me a secret?  _

Huffing out a frustrated, low sound, Harry blinks up at Louis. He’s never seen Louis before, because he knows that he’d remember that. The darkness blanketing the room outside of the warm glow of the golden lamp feels scary, unsure, in that moment. Harry doesn’t think he could move off of the bed even if he wanted to, thinks he’d give up a lot of things just to stay on the bed beside Louis. _ How’re you here? _

_ If I tell you a secret,  _ Louis whispers with a conspiratorial glance at the door _ , you’ve got to tell me one back. ‘S only fair.  _

He trusts Louis more than he should. He can hear Des’ voice in the back of his mind chiding him for always looking for the best in people.  _ You first. _

_ My dad worked in the legal department for a while,  _ Louis is not making eye contact with him. His tan fingers work over the loose threads in the bedspread, _ ‘M mostly here for Niall.  _

_ Horan?  _ Harry’s been sharing a space with Niall for nearly three years and has never seen Louis there. 

_ No, Payne. You ding bat.  _ Chuckling low under the sound of rising yells from downstairs, eyes crinkled closed, _ Know many Niall’s?  _

He can’t do much besides laugh at himself. _ No.  _

Abruptly prim, Louis says _ I didn’t think so.  _

Harry wants to nuzzle into the juncture of his throat. He can already feel the steady way that Louis’ fingers would work through his curls, the gentle way Louis’ shoulder would rise and fall with his breathing. It’s a mark of how long he’s been alone that he can’t unravel the strings of ‘lonely’ and ‘want’ sometimes. Looking at Louis, watching him blink lazily, long eyelashes like caught birds’ wings, he thinks that he can feel want want want thrumming through his chest, expanding into his fingertips, _ Be nice to me.  _

_ ‘M always nice,  _ but his sharp little canine teeth are sinking into his lower lip, and Harry can imagine that being the exact same face Louis makes before he starts a bloody war. For a moment, he just watches the way that Louis smiles.  _ ‘M gonna be eighty five before you tell me a secret.  _

It feels like a lot, when the words trip off his tongue, but he knows that it probably isn’t, that other people admit to wanting worse or better things all of the time _. I want to know you.  _

_ Not a secret,  _ Louis’ cheeks are rosy along the edges. 

He’s this hazy spot of warmth in Harry’s mind already; an old photograph left out on a table and loved too much. In lieu of any real response, Harry just watches him again. He’s exhausted, it’s about three in the morning, and he’s riding high on the little cloud of happiness that Louis has buoyed in his chest. He wants to touch, wants to have better words, wants something more for this boy.

Louis tilts his head to the side like he’s considering, then he whispers _ Tell me something.  _

_ Hm?  _

Because he’s so cozy and relaxed, he hadn’t realized that his shirt has ridden up. The tattoo along the line of his hip is exposed, but even so, when Louis’ fingers touch at it gently, he can’t stop the instinctive shiver that rocks up his spine. There are goosebumps pebbling his nipples, turning his skin too tight. 

_ What’sit say?  _

_ ‘Might as well’  _ he murmurs. __

_ Why?  _

Harry got some of his tattoos for no reason, for spite. His dad hates them. This tattoo he’d gotten alongside Zayn. Instead of any of that, Harry closes his eyes. Louis’ thumb is still moving across the words, rhythmic and smooth, lulling, and Harry just wants to be touched by him always. 

_ Don’t you fall asleep on me.  _

His green eyes are heavy to open. _ ‘M sleepy.  _ He can’t pick out the distinct words, but Louis sounds like he’s whispering something about “bloody kitten, honestly.” 

_ ‘M gonna have to go find out sometime, Harold.  _

_ Secret. _

_ You’re bloody terrible at secrets.  _

_ ‘M noooot,  _ but he’s so tired, and Louis’ fingers are so warm, so gentle against his skin, and he misses other people so much. College makes him feel so alone. _ ‘M just sleepy.  _

Louis huffs out a silly, fond sounding laugh. _ ‘M not gonna let you drool on me.  _

Harry can feel his eyebrows scrunch up when he scowls. He doesn’t drool. Zayn says he snores, but Zayn also says that coffee is better than tea, and he’s too busy wondering if Louis drools or if he snuffles or if he snuggles. Is he as warm as he looks?  _ Louiiiiis. I’m sleepy. _

The last thing that Harry remembers before he falls asleep are small, tan fingers slipping over his wrist again. They rest gently against his pulse point, map out the rushing veins like highways running up his arm and leading to his heart. The night is so dark and the party is so loud and Louis is so warm. 

_ ** _

_ What’re you doing?  _

It’s pushing two in the morning, and Harry has a management test on Monday that he hasn’t bothered studying for. Every time he takes his books out, there are eight more interesting things to do or a bird outside the window that is doing something cool. None of that explains why he’s scrubbing the dishes while a party rages in the backyard. 

He hasn’t seen Louis since the last party, since they left home, despite keeping his eyes open during his walks and looking around all of his lecture halls. Harry looks down at his hands submerged in soapy water before he shrugs. 

_ Not really feeling it tonight.  _

Louis pushes off of the doorjamb nearly silently, padding across the kitchen in his socks and the vibrant blue beanie Harry saw him come in in. Somehow, absurdly, Harry’s heart speeds in his chest when Louis comes to stand beside him. Ever since their first conversation, Harry has been longing for the ease of talking to him again, the pleased curl of his lower lip when he’d said,  _ not a secret.  _

For long moments, they just stand in the quiet kitchen. Harry keeps washing dishes, allowing the rhythmic motions to soothe him, while Louis scoots up onto the countertop, his socked feet dangling well above the floor. Neither of them press for conversation, and when Harry catches Louis staring at the side of his face, he tries not to blush down at the plates he’s washing. 

When the sounds from outside roar louder for a second, Louis murmurs,  _ Tell me a secret.  _

Snorting, Harry pins Louis with a look,  _ I’m tired.  _

_ Try again,  _ Louis tilts his head to the side,  _ Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook just because you’re pretty. _

Even under the wide brimmed hat he’s got on, a blush creeps up over the edges of his cheeks, turns the tops of his ears pinkish. Everything feels very immediate when Harry looks at Louis: the too fast beating of his own heart, his own awareness of everything going on outside and his awareness of his own inability to be part of it, the way Louis showing up again sends butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

_ I don’t think that,  _ Harry says to the soapy water that is halfway up his forearms. The inky blackness of the window reflects the chaos happening outside. Flashes of gold across his cheekbone, he turns to face Louis,  _ Maybe ‘m just terrible at secrets.  _

Louis snorts,  _ You can’t be. It’s not possible.  _

_ It could be!  _ Losing track of the soap suds dripping down to his elbows, Harry waves around at the house around him,  _ I don’t really have much space to be keeping secrets, do I?  _

_ Secrets don’t take up physical space,  _ Louis’ voice falls under the roar of the frat. 

Tired of doing dishes and not looking at Louis, Harry turns away from the sink, wiping his hands on a dish towel set by the stove. The whole thing feels ridiculous. A frat president, hiding in his own kitchen, doing dishes while a party rages on outside, isn’t that secret enough? Before Harry can vocalize that, Louis is whispering,  _ Tell me a secret.  _ He’s so sharp, against the scuffed wooden cabinets, honey skin and cornflower blue eyes and candy floss lips. Harry wants to kiss him. Harry wants to never see him again.

Staring down at the mess of his fingers all twisted together against his thighs, Harry says,  _ I let the first boy I ever dated give me a tattoo.  _ At the time, in his dingy apartment, the windows cracked, a love bite blooming across his neck, Harry’d felt so mature. There would never be anyone like this again, he remembers thinking. Now, older, he chuckles at the memory. 

Louis is smiling, small and sad,  _ What’s it say?  _

Harry doesn’t bother bending down to try to pull his skintight jeans up. They won’t roll up his calves,  _ Never gonna dance again.  _

The way Louis is watching him, head tilted just barely to the side, makes Harry feel like he’s being measured. He has so many tattoos, some stupid, some incredibly meaningful. It can be hard to understand that if you don’t have any. From what even, tan skin Harry has seen, Louis doesn’t appear to have any. Taking a deep breath and opening his mouth, Harry prepares to defend himself. 

Instead, voice soft, Louis says,  _ Why?  _

They’d been doing badly, if Harry wanted to be honest. Jeff was never around, and when he was, they bickered over little things, like Jeff’s inability to pick up after himself and the blasé, cruel way he ignored Harry sometimes. Harry can’t remember specifics from the night when Jeff tattooed him: just the somehow sharp and dull pain of the needle and the shame he felt at getting into a relationship that made him so tired all the time, both physically and mentally. His dad, when he saw the tattoo, asked him how he got it. Harry remembers that too, remembers lying to protect Jeff, who’d never really cared. 

Harry picks self consciously at the loose threads in his black henley,  _ I was tired, after Jeff. I was young, and I just remember wanting it to work out so badly. When I knew it wouldn’t,  _ Harry shrugs,  _ I didn’t want to try again. For a long time.  _

_ I’m sorry,  _ Louis’ voice cuts through the sound of the party, high and raspy,  _ I’m sorry that happened to you.  _

In the following silence, Harry feels a gulf open in his chest. Jeff had been, in some ways, the easiest relationship he’d ever had. His dad hadn’t even known anything about Jeff, just that he was an older guy in the frat that Harry was rushing. Fingers twisting together against his thigh, Harry knows that he doesn’t want Jeff back anymore. He’s past that. What he wants back is that ease, that softness. 

_ I don’t have any tattoos,  _ Louis’s voice startles Harry. 

_ Why?  _ The desire to take the attention away from himself, away from what he said about Jeff, is strong. 

Louis shrugs, jostling the shirt perched just barely over his collarbones,  _ I’m not a big fan of needles,  _ his eyes scrunch up,  _ and I’m not sure I have anything I want on my body permanently right now. Nothing big enough has happened, I guess.  _

_ But you’re here now,  _ Harry responds,  _ Maybe there’ll be something. _

Eyes twinkling across the kitchen, Louis smiles. He’s so much the same person that Harry had in his bed, so much the person that Harry ached to see that something in his chest comes loose for that easy acceptance. 

_ Maybe.  _

_ ** _

_ Hiding from your own party again?  _

Harry doesn’t startle like he did the first two times. Blunt dangling from between his fingers, he tips his head back onto the porch railing, conscious of the snapback perched precariously over his messy curls. Louis looks ethereal outlined in fairy lights and the general haze of Thursday night frat parties, his white Henley pulled tight over the swells of his biceps and shoulders. Harry shrugs. Some days, he wants to hide from his entire life, from the expectations, from the monotony of business classes. 

Louis looks at him, unwavering and soft.  _ Aren’t you supposed to have your moody phase in high school?  _

The weed makes Harry loose and honey slow, things careening in and out of focus. Around him, the entire night has gone nearly silent and black, the shouts and bass echoing through the porch doors the only indication that a party is still raging behind them. He feels nostalgic in a kind of aimless, sepia colored photographs way that he doesn’t usually allow himself to be. 

_ Aren’t you supposed to be kinder to people providing you with free booze? _

Chuckling, bare feet scuffing over the wooden slats of the deck, Louis sits himself in the space next to Harry.  _ Let me guess,  _ he tips his head back to look at Harry, wide blue eyes and the thin, slightly mocking curl of his mouth,  _ your favorite writer was probably Siken? Bukowski? Something, like.  _

Harry aches to wrap a hand around the back of Louis’ neck and press kisses to the uneven rise of his collarbones when he grins so hard his eyes crinkle. 

_ Sad as fuck, probably.  _

It’s accurate. Harry has this brown journal (not a diary, fuck, Niall) that he uses for quotes he loves. What he doesn’t tell Louis is that his favorite classic is probably “The Catcher in the Rye,” and that his favorite book of poetry is “Crush” by Siken. Grey smoke clouding hazily into the air between them, Harry shrugs, thinks you got me faded, faded, faded, baby. 

Louis giggles into Harry’s shoulder, fists balled up and pressing, warm and sure, into Harry’s side through the white tank he threw on over his jeans when Niall told him going shirtless to his own party wasn’t acceptable until he could at least pass as drunk. He could blame it on the weed, the way something golden and warm rises in his throat, the urge to kiss Louis humming stronger than ever beneath his skin. He could blame it on the way that Louis’ eyelashes flutter to his cheekbones when Harry purses his lips around the end of the blunt, careful to blow the smoke away from Louis. 

_ Tell me a secret, Harry Styles.  _

He’s not drunk, and even if he was, he wouldn’t blame the next thing he says on that. He remembers Nick Grimshaw, his freshman year, writing off their hook up as a drunk, fumbling thing. The sad smile on Nick’s face at his engagement party to Taylor Swift. It’s not any of Harry’s business, really, but he’d never screw someone over like that. 

_ I want to know you, i _ s what Harry whispers into the hazy night.

Louis shakes his head, eyes fixed on the river beyond the frat house’s backyard _ , ’S not a secret.  _

Harry’s not going to give away more than that. He’s been told that he isn’t good at holding his cards close to his chest, been told that that makes him weak. With Louis a vibrant, smiling, entirely whole person beside him, Harry thinks they’re all wrong. Bringing the blunt up to his lips, he inhales as deeply as he can, feeling the fuzzy edges of his high beginning to wear off.

Just as he’s going to exhale, the music from inside peaking, Louis wraps a small, tan hand around his wrist. Harry holds his breath for as long as he can, melting into the hand that Louis secures into the curls at the nape of his neck to drag him down. He’s shotgunned before with girls and boys and a cat, on a night when he was particularly fucked up. Louis’ not like any of those experiences. 

His blue eyes fall closed as Harry’s lips just barely touch his, the smoke passing between their mouths, rising into the black sky in a grey, fragrant cloud. Every place they touch is electric, Harry’s skin singing with the stroking of Louis’ thumb. 

Harry draws back when Louis has finished inhaling. He holds the smoke in his lungs, eyes closed. Harry’s not drunk, just buzzing pleasantly on a high that crests again, when he fits a hand to the hinge of Louis’ jaw. The bud drops to the cement below his feet. 

_ Gonna have to do better,  _ Louis murmurs, words dissolving into the sky and the inky blackness beyond the party, the noise, the rush behind them _ , or ‘m not gonna sleep over tonight.  _

Louis will stay over, whether he finds a better secret or not. Still, Harry strokes his thumb over the cut of Louis’ cheekbone and appreciates how tough he’s trying to be. They both know that Louis doesn’t pass up a late morning in bed, pancakes when all of the other boys have gone to the gym, a private room as opposed to his dorm across campus. Harry hasn’t quite managed to delude himself into thinking he’s the only draw of this place. 

His hand is big enough that he can keep a thumb on Louis’ cheek while the rest of his fingers spread wide over the dewy nape of his neck. Harry watches the fluttering of Louis’ eyelashes as he whispers, _ I want to kiss you.  _ It feels like jumping. 

Louis, young and so compact, stands up. He doesn’t shake Harry’s hand off of him, but Harry moves it anyway, distantly startled, distantly concerned through the haze of weed and party and late nights. Harry watches, waits, tells himself that he can write it off as weed. Louis doesn’t go inside. Thighs parting as he lowers himself, Louis straddles his lap. 

It’s the third time Harry has ever really spoken to Louis. There is something that burns so much more brightly between them, an instant spark of attraction that Harry has never had with anyone else. Louis, the warm boy in blue jeans and a white Henley, currently perched over his lap, feels as right as anything ever has. He’s hesitant until Louis’ hands lock around the nape of his neck,  _ Better.  _

_ Yeah?  _ Harry noses into feathery, clean hair near Louis’ ear,  _ Wanna kiss you so so much.  _

_ Much better,  _ Louis’ arching into him. Their bodies align, _ Want you to.  _

Harry’s addicted to the way that Louis laughs breathlessly as he kisses down the apples of his cheeks, the side of his mouth, before connecting their mouths. Their first kiss is chaste, warm and dry, a mere meeting of their lips. Louis jolts, his lips dropping open, hands tightening in Harry’s hair as Harry fits a hand to the hinge of his jaw. Harry feels fireworks explode behind his eyelids and within the pit of his stomach, everything speeding like a fast bumper car, sparks dancing along the ceiling. 

Their next kiss is still one of the gentlest kisses Harry’s ever given anyone. Harry’s tongue flickers at the seal of Louis’ lips before they open their mouths together, Louis suckling at Harry’s tongue as Harry’s hands fit down the back of his jeans, cupping his lower back and bum. It’s loud behind them, still and always, but Harry is lost to everything but the way that Louis responds, so eagerly, so unabashed, young and fit and Harry’s, for the moment. 

_ ** _

The next week, Harry finds himself in an upstairs hallway, not entirely cognizant of how he got there, not entirely sure how Louis came to be between him and the wall, a blunt dangling from his fingers. He’s smirking up at Harry’s hazy expression,  _ Tell me a secret.  _

The urge to scoff is near impossible to resist, between the weed and Louis’ grin. Bass is throbbing through the house, muffling everything they say to each other, muffling the noises of other couples and other kisses. Harry nudges his nose into the side of Louis’ neck. Here, he smells like sweat and Harry’s cologne,  _ Want you to ride me on the kitchen table. Want everyone to know you’re with me.  _ His words are slower than normal, lagging with the weed and his exhaustion. 

Louis turns his warm, soft nose into Harry’s cheek,  _ Darling.  _ His laugh doesn’t feel mocking, just fond and warm,  _ They know. Don’t need to get naked in the kitchen.  _

It is easy, when Louis gets cuddly like this, to let any stress from the past week melt away. He’s everything that Harry has never dared to want, everything that Harry could imagine himself being with for a long time. Harry shoves those thoughts aside before they get too serious. It’s the weed, he repeats like a mantra, just the weed, just the weed. 

_ ‘M high,  _ Harry whispers, snuggling closer to Louis’ warmth and protection. It feels good to hide his face in Louis’ neck, to escape his world for a little while, to not have to explain what he said or be pressured into following through,  _ Wanna kiss you.  _

Louis kisses down his cheek before catching his lower lip in between his teeth. Harry doesn’t have time to be embarrassed about the noise he makes,  _ Wanna kiss you too.  _

They kiss, nearly silently in the upstairs hallway. Louis keeps Harry tucked close to his body, shields him from any people who may walk by, whispers quiet praise into his ear when he gets embarrassed about the sounds slipping from his lips. Louis grins, small and indulgent, says  _ You’re so lovely.  _ Harry flushes, from his collarbones to the ridges of his ears, purrs when Louis pets at the wide ferns across his hips. There is no pressure to move on past their kissing, no pressure to go into his bedroom and have sex, despite what Harry said earlier. 

Whether it’s the weed or Louis, Harry feels like the night passes in a haze of Louis’ mouth and feeling like he could burst at the seams from happiness. 

***

Harry doesn’t normally see Louis during the week. He’s got classes and frat stuff and errands and gym trips, the normal going on’s of a college junior on track to graduate in four years with a business and sociology double major. His mom calls, on Monday night, to talk to Harry about the new girl that his dad’s found for him. She’s lovely, apparently, intelligent and beautiful and composed, like that’s something Harry strives for in the sloppy, half wasted girls who usually get on their knees for him. He grips his lower lip between his fingers so strongly that he’s going to leave marks, taking another swig of the beer between his hands. The fading to blackness that comes with twilight leaves Harry feeling breathless and alone. 

For hours, he lies awake. There are days, bad days, when he feels like he resents every single person in his life, even the ones who try to help him, as misguided and fumbling as the attempts usually are. He never has a real reason for it, which somehow makes it worse. He’s got money, good grades, a family business that he’ll be spearheading as soon as college is over. There are people who have it so, so much worse than Harry.

It’s a black midnight. There’s this terrifying, saddening, desperate feeling clawing up his throat that Harry isn’t sure how to fight. Before he can talk himself out of it, he’s jolting up in his black sheets, phone clutched to his ear.

_ ‘Lo?  _ Louis’ voice is rough, raspy, like he’s just been woken.

Harry’s never been to his dorm room, never really met his roommate Liam. The words die in his mouth. He has no real claim to Louis, no real, tangible reason for calling him this late. 

Louis exhales a long breath, whispers  _ My bed’s not very big, and Li’s asleep in the bunk below, but.  _

His heart trips over itself, foolish and yearning, in his own chest.

_ If you want to, you can come over.  _

_ Yeah?  _ Harry breathes like he isn’t already fumbling for his keys, his beanie, making sure that he’s got a warm enough hoodie pulled on with his gym shorts. Louis whispers an address in a residence hall across campus, and Harry is out of his house before he’s even hung up the phone. Everything feels so stifling about his frat house, about the constant reminder of what he should be and what he should be aspiring for. Really, he’s been torn between thinking of how desperately sad he is and thinking about how nice it is to have someone like Louis want him. 

The residence hall is glowing, almost clinical yellow light spilling out of the windows, a steady stream of students going in and out the doors. Harry smiles, small, at a girl who holds the door for him, then takes the elevator to the fifth floor. As far as dorms go, it looks just the one that Harry lived his freshman year in. Generic, textured white walls, the barrage of door decorations proclaiming names and home towns, the attempted cheeriness amidst stress and entire life upheavals. 

_ Here.  _

Louis opens the door in a pair of grey boxer briefs and a too long, blue and white striped tee shirt, rubbing his eyes against the harsh light. He’s beautiful, a summer boy straight out of every movie Harry’s ever watched about love, the only thing in Harry’s life that has any amount of happiness attached to it. 

_ Hey _ is what Harry manages to get out around the lump in his throat. If Louis hugs him, he knows for a fact that he’s going to begin crying and might not be able to stop. 

A small, sad smile lilts Louis’ lips as he wraps a careful hand around Harry’s wrist:  _ Tell me a secret, Harry Styles.  _

Harry laughs, wet and feeble, before he’s collapsing down into the warm space where Louis’ neck and shoulder meet. The night wasn’t cold, but it feels like it was, because he wasn’t wrapped up into the sure, shaking strength of Louis’ sleepy hold. They stand in the too bright hallway for a long time: Harry biting down on the seemingly senseless, little tears that fall onto Louis’ collar, Louis’ hands making their way up into the hair at the nape of his neck before they go back down, tracing down his tense neck and shoulders before settling under his beanie. 

When everything feels a little less crushing, Harry turns into the fragrant, downy hair near Louis’ ear and murmurs  _ I missed you.  _ Everything condenses down to the nearly silent shaking giggles that Louis muffles in his chest. He’s pressed up on the balls of his feet, nestled into Harry’s hair. 

_ I’ve missed you too,  _ he murmurs, butterfly kisses glancing across Harry’s temple. 

Harry doesn’t have his guard up high enough tonight to worry about checking the sincerity of that statement. Louis’ fingers pressing like little pinpricks of light into his skin feel like answer enough. 

_ You tired?  _

Harry wishes he felt okay enough to wrap his hands around the fleshy, untoned insides of Louis’ thighs and hold him against the wall. If he cared less, if he needed Louis less, he would. Tonight, he slides his hands under the wrinkled material of Louis’ shirt and nods. Everything in his body feels weighed down. Harry is tired in the way where his pelvis feels tired, where his ribs feel pinched too tightly. 

They hold hands through the near blackness of Louis’ dorm room, scaling the ladder up Louis’ lofted bed as quietly as possible after they’ve shed their shirts. Harry can’t see anything distinguishable about the room: not the clutter on Louis’ desk or the empty water bottle that Liam has propped on the floor, the blanket tossed at the end of their futon, or the royal blue of Louis’ sheets. In the darkness, all he can feel out is the inviting slope of Louis’ hip. 

There is a brief moment, after they’ve settled down, when Harry doesn’t know how to ask to be held. He doesn’t know if he needs to tell Louis, if he needs to say Louis’ name all trembly and low, or if Louis will just understand. 

Louis’ warm hand finds the lean bone of his hip and pull, gentle and irresistible: _ I’ve got a secret.  _

Harry curls up as small as possible into Louis’ hold, arms wrapped double around his back. Louis is speaking into the crown of his head. His eyelashes are weighted, his brain feels like it’s buzzing with too many thoughts to possibly put them all into words. Louis cuts through that whole mess.

Rubbing a hand up and down Harry’s back, Louis says  _ I wanted to see you tonight  _ like he’s the reason they’re lying squished together in a bunk that smells of teakwood body wash and the musk of Louis’ cologne, something light and summery. 

Harry mouthes a kiss to Louis’ pec, the thin, inner skin there. He doesn’t know how to thank Louis for this, for not kicking him out when he needed Louis the most, for not being scared. 

_ ** _

Louis is rubbing a hand over his side, rhythmic and easy, when Harry finally blinks his eyes open. The day is overcast, and it manages to make Louis look impossibly warmer, this alive, vibrant thing within Harry’s hold. Sometime during the last few hours, they’ve switched to Louis lying across his chest. The weight is comforting, Louis’ touch is comforting. Last night feels far away. 

He tries to remain still for as long as possible, to prolong the moment when Louis asks about what happened last night. 

_ ’S late,  _ Louis whispers into his neck, warm breath sending goosebumps rushing over Harry’s skin, _ ’S raining.  _

To Harry, exhausted and heavy with the weight of whatever he hasn’t managed to clear out of his system, it sounds like Louis wants him to leave. The inviting, impossibly warm boy from last night is already a missing piece in Harry’s heart, their connection chilling between them even as their hearts beat together. He pats at Louis’ hip, attempting nonchalance as he says _ I’ll go.  _

Louis shakes his head,  _ I didn’t ask for that.  _

Harry stills, hand resting against Louis’ skin. 

_ Don’t want you to go.  _

Trying to not let Louis feel how relaxed he goes at that, Harry tips his head to the side, nosing at Louis’ hairline. He smells good, clean and boyish. It’s a credit to himself, maybe, that Louis is the sweetest, prettiest boy that Harry has ever had the pleasure to touch. Even when he shows up at Harry’s frat’s parties trying to look like he’s not a freshman, he’s this brilliant, vibrant, incredible boy. Harry doesn’t know if he can say that Louis is his yet, but he wants that. He wants that so much. 

_ You sure?  _

Louis nods, lips puckering against Harry’s neck, _ ’S warm with you here.  _

When he says things like that, unguarded and honest, Harry knows that Louis hasn’t been in many relationships. Harry’s been with girls who would make him beg for it, would use sex as a punishment or an incentive or a reward. There’ve been guys who’ll suck him off in a locked bathroom and threaten to send dick pics to all of his family the moment he slips up and thinks they could’ve been something more. Louis just curls up against his chest without asking questions, tells Harry that it’s warmer with him near. 

Harry kisses the crown of Louis’ head, runs his fingers up and down the warm valley along Louis’ spine. The dorm hall, in mid morning stillness, is quieter than Harry’s frat house, quieter than he remembers it ever being when he lived on the fourth floor. He listens to the small, huffed way that Louis breathes against his throat, the sounds of their bodies shifting minutely on the sheets.

_ D’you have class today?  _

Louis doesn’t know his class schedule at all, and that hits Harry square in the chest. The same person who trusts him enough to let him crawl into his bed in the middle of the night doesn’t know when his Econ lecture is or where his parents live or why he’s here. Abruptly, Harry knows that he won’t lie to Louis. He might’ve lied to Nick or to Caroline, because they didn’t seem to care beyond whether or not he could go another round. Louis’ fingers are resting heavily against his hip, breathing even.

Harry shrugs, _ Probably not gonna go, to be honest.  _

_ Rebel,  _ Louis whispers, a bit of a laugh underpinning his words,  _ I should’ve known. The tattoos, the smoking habit.  _

What Harry could say is that his worst habit is the nights when he doesn’t feel hungry enough to eat so he just goes to bed. He giggles into Louis’ hair, palm taking up the entire warmth of his lower back,  _ And you haven’t even ridden my Harley.  _

_ Harry Styles,  _ Louis perks up instantly. His blue eyes are wide, curious. Usually, Louis has to play his little games to get Harry to confess. Harry’s entire life has been this tenuous, silly game of convincing people to like him without his dad’s money, despite his mom’s former career as a model. The expectations and horrors of his own life looming over his head have never created much space for a relationship. 

With the morning light making Louis look sleep rumpled, yawning like a kitten even as he rests his chin on his hands, Harry can’t resist telling him the truth, especially if he’ll continue to look at Harry with hazy, honest eyes.

_ Yes?  _

_ You have a motorcycle that you never told me about?  _

Harry draws circles into the meat of Louis’ hips with his thumbs, _ Maybe.  _

His eyes scrunched up in a disbelieving scowl, Louis kicks gently at his ankle but doesn’t push further. _ Can I ride it?  _

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up at the mental image of Louis straddling a motorcycle: small hands around the handlebars, thick thighs parted for the seat. He hopes that Louis can’t feel how his entire body responds to that mental image. When a breathy _ yeah  _ trips out of his mouth, Harry isn’t sure he’s even talking about his motorcycle anymore _. _

_ When?  _ Louis’ got his lower lip caught under the sharp tips of his canines. 

_ Whenever you want.  _

_ Now?  _

There are a hundred and fifty things that Louis doesn’t know about him: the time he almost slept with a housekeeper because his parents hadn’t looked at him in a week, the time he nearly jumped off the roof because Zayn’s weed was too strong for him, the week he spent sleeping in the back of his Range Rover while he and Zayn fucked in the middle of Colorado, the way his mind won’t shut up about bad things sometimes, endless mountains of bad things, every bad possibility falling to pieces in his own mind. 

Harry can’t let Louis get involved with him when he doesn’t know that. It isn’t fair. 

Feigning a smile that is probably too bright, Harry says  _ Don’t you have class?  _

Louis’ lips turn down in a frown,  _ Have an Anatomy and Physiology lecture and a Bio lab, actually.  _ His face doesn’t betray anything, doesn’t show a hint of awareness that Harry is playing at being happy, a bad caricature of happiness.  _ Thought I might go to the lab, at least.  _

Harry is trying to disentangle himself as gently as he can from Louis before Louis says anything else. It’s unfair to make Louis a victim to his own inability to take social cues, to just leave when he’s unwanted. Other people recognize when they’re not necessary anymore, why can’t he? Frustrated with himself, Harry just wants space, wants to get away from it. Arms around Louis’ hips, eyes closed, Harry tries to push over to the wall so he can shimmy back down the ladder. His fingers catch on the edge of his shirt, and he knows that he can go now, that he’s got everything he could’ve left in Louis’ bed. 

Carefully, Louis’ fingers wrap around his wrist.

Harry’s eyes open slowly, cautiously. 

Louis’ smiling, small and sad, head smushed into his pillow. The angles of his cheekbones cast shadows, creating dark hollows under his eyes. He’s still beautiful, still so much that Harry’s chest aches with wanting him. Louis shrugs, whispering  _ You keep hearing things I’m not saying  _ but it’s gentle. Not a reprimand, just an observation that Harry can choose to leave or take.

Harry can only turn his reddening cheeks into the blue sheets, white walls and light brown dorm furniture disappearing as he closes his eyes. There are a billion things he needs to say to Louis, so many explanations he already owes him. 

Fingers smoothing down Harry’s cheek, Louis whispers _ You’re alright.  _

Harry laughs, wet and scared, always so terrified of all of the things going on in his own head, his own world. Louis just strokes down his face. He wants to ask Louis whether he’s got questions. Has he realized how unstable Harry is? Does he want to run away yet? Harry wants to curl Louis up in his lap. He squeezes his eyes closed more tightly against the shame clawing at his throat. 

_ If you want, you can stay here while I go to class. Liam might be back. I never know if he’s gonna study or not,  _ his voice tapers off into something softer _ , I can come over after class, if you wanted to do that instead.  _

Throat threatening to close with gratitude, Harry reaches out for Louis. They come together without a sound: Louis snuggling up under his chin, arms wrapped too tightly around Harry’s middle. Harry nuzzles down into his hair, breathes in the clean, calming scent of laundry and Louis. He wants, in that moment, Louis’ clothes on his bedroom floor, Louis’ body imprinted into his bed’s mattress. 

_ After class, okay?  _ Harry murmurs into the crown of his head.

Louis nudges his lips against Harry’s throat,  _ Yeah.  _

_ We’re having a party tonight, if you want to—  _

_ Might get spoiled, Styles,  _ Louis leans up to his face, nudging their noses together. The gesture is so intimate, so warm, a shiver ripples down Harry’s spine, _ Might start thinking I like sleeping with you or something.  _

_ Heeey,  _ Harry kisses chastely at Louis’ lower lip _ , Be nice to me.  _

_ I’m mean to all of my best friends.  _

_ We’re friends now?  _

Louis shrugs, laughter merely a puff of breath against Harry’s upper lip,  _ We’re friends who kiss, yeah.  _

_ ** _

It’s homecoming week. Usually, Harry loves it: the concert, the football game, Niall in his element, his entire frat coming together to celebrate. This year, he feels a bit lost, a bit aimless. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything, even when Harry comes back home to a nearly full house. As he passes by, obviously in clothes from last night, some guys give him smiles or thumbs up. The house is buzzing, alive with activity, bright and warm, boys working together, chaos in the midst of taco making in the kitchen. Harry doesn’t bother saying anything as he takes the rickety wooden stairs two at a time and heads into the bathroom for a shower.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Niall is seated on his bed, snapback pulled over his messy hair. He’s rumpled, soft, looks hazy eyed sitting amidst Harry’s white sheets.  _ You alright?  _

Harry doesn’t bother putting on clothes. The grey day and his long night have made him feel heavy: he sags onto the foot of his bed, towel around his hips bunching around his hips before he turns his head to look at Niall. His shrug is muffled by the sheets beneath his back. __

_ You’d tell me, right?  _ Niall’s eyes go narrow when he’s concerned, crinkle at the corners.

Absurdly, Harry thinks of Louis’ smile, of how his eyes fold up the same way that Niall’s do. Harry met Niall when they were unsure freshmen rushing together. Now, two years later, and Niall still doesn’t see how wrong Harry feels sometimes. Niall asking Harry to tell him, to warn him, feels somehow empty.

Harry nudges Niall’s foot with his hip.  _ ‘Course, Nialler.  _

_ **  _

Louis tips his head back against the darkened wall, laughing. He’s smaller here, still a supernova, just burning more steadily between Harry’s hands. As soon as he’d texted Harry to tell him that he was done with his Biology lab, Harry’d gotten up and put clothes on, pretended to have interest in the party going on until Louis walked through the front door, cold and windswept. 

Harry cages Louis in more firmly against the wall. 

_ Hey,  _ his hands push feebly at Harry’s hips, _ don’t be mean.  _ Despite his scowl, the stretched out neck of his soft tee shirt and his thick little thighs make Harry burn with the need to touch him, to kiss. They’re hidden at the end of a hallway upstairs. Louis sticks out his tongue,  _ Let me go.  _

_ Don’t think I will,  _ Harry smirks, bending down to the warm juncture of Louis’ throat. The pair of hands on his waist squeeze, _ Don’t think I will for a long time.  _

_ What’re you gonna do to me, hm?  _

Against the scuffed white wall, the music ricocheting through the entire house, Louis tips his head back again, pouts his lips out. He’s obscenely pretty, and Harry’s never waited this long to be with someone. Usually, his sexual chemistry wins out over his friendship ability with someone. Louis is almost the exact opposite. Harry loves being his friend, loves how smart he is, but he also loves how Louis kisses him, so slow and gentle, and he loves how Louis looks, this striking combination of lights and darks, sharp and soft. 

_ What d’you want me to do to you?  _ Harry murmurs into his ear.

Louis’ hands slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, confident and easy. It’s a testament to how much Harry likes Louis that he goes entirely pliant. Caroline had learned that he liked having his hair pulled and used it to get her way. Nick had asked him to cut his hair as soon as ringlets began forming behind his ears, along his forehead. 

Louis whispers  _ Been trying to get you to fuck me for a while.  _

_ Yeah?  _

Blue eyes electric, Louis nods,  _ Probably let you fuck me right here, if you wanted.  _

Harry just shakes his head. He can’t. He can’t think past that statement, past the implications there. It’s like his brain got caught on repeat. 

They meet with their mouths already open against each other, something hungry clawing at the space between their bodies. Louis is giving and pliant under Harry’s hands, moves with his touches, responds like a live wire when Harry hitches his legs up around Harry’s hips. Kissing stops feeling like enough the second that Louis’ fingers close around his cross necklace. 

_ Louis.  _

Louis keeps humping forward against Harry’s cock, his small hips working endlessly to find friction. Breathing hard against the juncture of his throat, lips wet against his skin, Harry wraps warm, possessive hands around his back to help him. They push together, slipping on zippers, rucking shirts up, until it’s nearly impossible to work standing up. In their frenzy, even walking to the end of the hall feels impossible. They make it through Harry’s bedroom door without too much trouble. Louis, when Harry lays him back on the bed, smiles softly. 

They can’t kiss anymore, when Louis begins to drag his own shirt over his head, followed by his pants. Harry can only watch on in awe, this beautiful, radiant boy that he’s wanted for so long undressing in his bed, even as his cheeks flush, even as the redness travels down over his fragile collarbones. Louis, as soon as he’s done, stands on the bed and walks over to Harry. Harry feels mesmerized by the sway of his hips, by the thickness of his cock, by how badly he wants to bury himself between Louis’ thighs. 

_ C’mon, Hazza,  _ Louis whispers, pressing himself against Harry’s fully clothed chest. Once again, small and hesitant, Louis grasps onto Harry’s cross necklace. There is something so intimate about small hands resting against Harry’s throat, something almost young about Louis needing to ground himself with that small touch. Suddenly, overwhelmingly, Harry needs to protect him. They kiss again, more gentle, more calm, as Harry wraps his arms double-y around Louis’ back and sinks to the edge of his white bed. 

_ Lou,  _ Harry can only kiss at the skin of his face, his neck, marvel at the subtle rocking motion of his hips, _ Louis.  _

_ Darling,  _ is Louis’ response, _ Wanna get undressed?  _

It’s hard to convince himself to stop touching Louis for long enough to get naked. His clothes are in the way, yes, but allowing Louis to recline back against his sheets without Harry’s hands on him feels worse, somehow. It takes a moment of coaxing, Louis backing off of him and onto the bed, until Harry finally strips himself of his shirt. His fingers tremble against his own skin, everything so immediate. The way that Louis smiles at him, the warm touch of Louis’ fingers against his pulse point, wrapping back around his necklace to bring him into a kiss. 

The party downstairs vibrates through the walls, and Louis moans, his head thrown back, throat bare to the light. Harry pulls him back into his lap for the way that it grounds him. Louis goes liquid for kisses to his throat, squirms against Harry’s cock when he gets low enough to drag his lips over Louis’ sternum and over to the tight, small buds of his nipples. Hands pressing up in the center of Louis’ lower back, Harry attaches his mouth to Louis’ left nipple. He tastes salty and summer-y, like gold is plated somewhere under his skin, and he moans unashamedly, loud and long and fingers wound up in Harry’s hair to keep him there. 

_ Oh my god, _ Louis repeats, broken, when Harry switches nipples. His hands have begun to slip on the sweaty, soft skin of Louis’ back and, in his view when he looks down, Louis’ pretty cock bobs, wet at the tip, thick and hooded. Harry can’t stop himself from touching, his lips still on Louis’ nipples.  _ Oh my god, oh my god,  _ Louis murmurs, nails against the back of Harry’s neck, _ oh my god.  _

Harry is rubbing his thumb back and forth over Louis’ cockhead when Louis finally breaks. 

_ Can you please fuck me?  _ Louis whimpers,  _ Please please oh my god.  _

They jostle, clumsy with new affection, refusing to separate, for a condom and the lube in Harry’s bedside table. Fingering Louis feels like it takes eons, like they spend years knocking their hips together, fumbling for a condom, making space in Louis’ body for Harry. He’s warm, inside, soft and welcoming, mewls so low and pretty when Harry nips at his neck to distract him from the pressure of another finger. Small, hipbones jetting across the skin of his belly, his cock trailing wetly between them, Louis moaning into the crescendo of another dubstep song. 

They come together when the party falls silent. 

**

_ My dad expects me to marry a girl and take over his company, like, _ Harry shrugs. It means so much to him that Louis understand how big that pressure feels on his shoulders, how large and looming this part of his life is. He’s here, at a college completely removed from his family’s entire prestigious reputation on the East coast, but it still feels like too much most of the time. Everything still sits so heavily over Harry’s diaphragm, and he’s not even sure if the pressure is real or not, whether he’s created this in his head or whether everything will crumble if he ignores it,  _ I’m not ungrateful for that, I’m just— Like.  _

_ You don’t want that,  _ Louis finishes, watching the side of his face in the combined ghostly green glow of the microwave and oven. Harry knows so little about Louis, in the grander scheme of things. He knows how Louis looks in the mornings, how he washes his hair in the shower, but not simple things, not his siblings’ ages or his mom’s birthday. The boy sitting beside him with the night pulled tight over his shoulders is entirely foreign. Somehow, it feels like Louis knows him better than even his closest friends.

Harry wishes he were brave enough to just shake his head outright. Instead, he shrugs again, his shoulder blades popping against the cabinet behind him.  _ I don’t think so, no.  _

_ Which part? _ Louis’ eyes fix on his face, and when he doesn’t turn, drop to his mouth, his collarbones, the birds fluttering over his lungs. 

The frat is silent around them. It’s three in the morning, and Harry’s skin vibrates to the same tenor as Louis’ moans, Louis’ shaky breaths when they touched. Selfishly, Harry wishes there were a party rocking the house, so much noise he couldn’t hear his own thoughts, the crashing of his own heartbeat in his chest.  _ The company, the girls. Those parts.  _

Louis’ voice trembles nearly imperceptibly around his  _ What do you want, then?  _

Harry thinks, when he turns to look at the tense side of Louis’ face, that he must not have been listening all this time. They’ve spent a month getting to know each other, cuddling up in beds, talking and shotgunning and partying. Harry has dated around quite a bit in college, whether because of his dad’s connections or because of his own charm, but he’s never done this before. This shy, awestruck courtship dance, where he sits on the kitchen floor at three in the morning with his hair in a ponytail and tries to explain away his entire life, his inability to function normally. Burying his hands in the sleeves of his black, long sleeved tee shirt, counting the tick of Louis’ jaw as he resolutely avoids Harry’s gaze. All of the moments they’ve spent together condensed down to this. 

_ You, _ Harry mumbles,  _ I never wanted to be just your friend. _

Louis’ skin pulls tight over his collarbones, the frantic pulse beating away in his neck, when he faces Harry. He’s smiling, that soft, indulgent grin that he does right before he asks  _ Tell me a secret, Harry Styles.  _

Harry’s laugh is watery, wavers when he tips his head back against the cabinet,  _ I don’t have any more secrets, Lou, y’know ‘em all.  _

Their lives aren’t an episode of Skins or Shameless. They’re just these two lost boys. Harry’s got this traitorous, hungry thing in the place of his heart, this thing that just wants and wants, never stops wanting. Louis is so bright, and he already means so, so much to Harry. There’s no way that any of this will end well. 

_ Alright, then, _ Louis turns to him. The shirt of Harry’s that he’s wearing gapes off one shoulder,  _ Ask me.  _

Harry, head still tipped to rest on the cabinet, turns to look at him. Voice low under the hum of the kitchen appliances and the noise of the silent house, whispers  _ Tell me a secret. _

Louis says, even,  _ I’d quite like to be your boyfriend.  _ He’s so calm, like saying those words doesn’t cost him a single thing. Not his entire future, not his parents’ love, not the home he has in Wisconsin. 

Breath caught in his throat, at the admission and at the easiness of his statement, Harry tries not to cry. If any of his brothers found him in the kitchen crying, that’d be the end of everything.  _ You’d have to be a secret, Lou. I couldn’t.  _ He shakes his head. Helplessness tugs his gaze to the floor,  _ I couldn’t give you a big public— _

_ The important people know _ , his toes bump into Harry’s ankle,  _ The boys here know. There are places where we wouldn’t have to be a secret.  _

_ Where? _ Harry turns to look at Louis, then, full on, for the first time in a long time. He looks unexpectedly sad, a weight in his drooping shoulders and the way he anxiously knits and unknits his fingers in his lap.  _ Lou— _

_ If you don’t want that, you can tell me,  _ he disarms Harry, always has.  _ I’m not going to hold that against you. If you don’t think you can.  _

The way that Harry’s strongest emotions have always wired themselves to his tear ducts is ridiculous. He hates that his first reaction to wanting Louis is to cry. There were summers when he’d gone up north with Zayn to laze about their parents’ cabins and fuck everywhere. He’d been so young, so silly with being inside of Zayn, being allowed to touch another boy like he wasn’t afraid of it. They’d gone home right before school had started and retreated back into their easy, affectionate friendship. Zayn had been engaged to Perrie Edwards before Harry could blink. To say that he’d felt betrayed would be ridiculous and accurate. All Harry remembers of the next night was going to Zayn’s house and crying all over his shoulder, the silly way he’d cried harder when Zayn said, “I love you the most, Hazza.” 

Looking at Louis is like reopening every single cut he has from Zayn. The shame of hiding that, the shame of being someone’s dirty secret. Can he allow Louis to be that for him? Can he allow Louis to make that choice for himself? 

Louis’ hand is so incredibly gentle when he tucks it against Harry’s jaw. Like he can read the emotions flickering across Harry’s face, he whispers  _ You don’t want me to be with anyone else.  _

Harry’s laugh is too loud and too wet,  _ No. I couldn’t— I couldn’t watch that, Lou, I— _

_ Do you need some liquid courage? _ Louis’ lips quirk into a mocking smile that’s softened by the thumb he rubs beneath Harry’s eyes,  _ Frat president Harry Styles can’t even tell me he wants to be my boyfriend, hm? Gotta get you a blunt. Then you’ll tell me you want me to ride you on the kitchen table.  _

Harry scowls ridiculously. The moments he’s spent not touching Louis suddenly seem dumb. If he never gets this again, if Louis decides he never wants to see Harry again after this all fails, then Harry has to get everything he can right now. Harry’s curling his hands around Louis’ hips, coaxing Louis’ thick thighs into parting over his own before he speaks again. They settle together, close and warm, Louis’ hands around his neck, anchored against everything else.  _ That was one time.  _

_ But you meant it,  _ Louis’ smile is warm. 

Harry rubs his nose against Louis’. Whispers  _ Always want to be inside you.  _

_ Sounds distracting _ , but the way he’s licking his lips and rocking, small and controlled, over Harry’s cock, says that he likes it. Harry shouldn’t have expected anything else, honestly. Louis loves knowing that he’s making Harry forget about his normal life, his normal duties around the frat.  _ D’you want to be inside me now?  _

Shrugging, Harry slips his hands down the back of Louis’ pants to rub a finger over his loose, wet hole,  _ Depends.  _

_ On? _ Louis’ eyes fall closed. 

_ If you’ll let me take you out to dinner tomorrow night.  _

When he tilts his head back in a nearly silent pant of laughter, Louis’ skin looks like honey and stardust. Harry can’t stop touching him. 

_ I suppose _ , Louis smirks,  _ but it does seem a little bit late for wining and dining.  _

*** 

They go out to a dingy pizza parlor that Louis loves. Harry has heard about it, because it is a mainstay of the campus, but he has never been here. With Harry’s hand clutched in his, Louis orders macaroni and cheese pizza and gyro pizza. Harry watches the side of his face and wants to kiss him, always, but especially when he is wearing dark jeans and a t-shirt that keeps threatening to slip off of his shoulder. To be honest, Harry doesn’t care what kind of pizza he gets; he wants to stay here in this warm restaurant with Louis against his side forever, pizza or not. He feels breathless with it: his luck, his happiness, the urge to lift Louis onto the counter and kiss him until he’s flushed and pliant. 

After Harry orders his pizza, they find a booth in the back of the restaurant where Louis can hook his foot around Harry’s ankle. He’s beautiful. Even in the harsh light, Harry losses himself in counting the freckles dusted across Louis’ cheek and the minute movements of his lips as he smiles. It is their first real date. 

Louis, a hand under his chin, says,  _ You’re staring.  _

Harry flushes, but he doesn’t look away. Louis’ eyes are warm, and he’s pink along his cheekbones with pleasure.  _ You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.  _

_ You must have low standards,  _ Louis is smiling even as he says it. 

Harry is completely sober, completely cognizant. Sharp, insistent, echoing in the back of his mind, he thinks, “I’m falling in love with you.” Out loud, he says  _ No one is as beautiful as you are.  _

Louis laughs with his head tipped back and a hand over his mouth. It is a laugh that Harry has not grown used to yet; he still feels immense pleasure and pride in conjuring it. The number of people in Harry’s life who are this free with their happiness is so small that it is negligible. Louis is golden, and the column of his neck looks like the perfect place for Harry’s mouth. In a sudden, unbidden flash, Harry imagines a life where he can have this after the graduates: a small apartment near campus, Louis’ shoes in the entry way, their clothes littering the bedroom floor because they can never wait long enough to begin kissing. He can almost taste the honeysuckle warmth of Louis’ laugh vibrating against his lips, the way that Louis’ hands feel on his shoulders and in the back of his hair. It is chilly in the pizza parlor and outside, as fall settles deeper into winter. Inside, Harry could be burning up with the way he feels. 

A waitress, attempting not to interrupt them, sets down their plates with a smile. They chorus quiet “thank you’s” as she turns. When she is far enough away not to overhear, Louis whispers,  _ No one has ever treated me like you have.  _ His eyelashes flutter and dance, hiding his eyes as he busies himself with the napkins and the parmesan cheese against the back wall of their booth. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Harry responds, unwaveringly watching Louis,  _ I feel—  _ he clears his throat,  _ I feel like the luckiest person on campus tonight.  _

Louis’ eyes are bright when he says,  _ You are, obviously.  _ Harry can sense that he means it to be flippant, light, something to break the tension, but the way he smiles and his voice both exude something softer and heavier. 

They eat mostly in silence, trading smiles back and forth across the table. Louis’ slim ankle stays between Harry’s for the entire time. They do not speak again until they get back to Louis’ dorm room. Silently, without letting go of Harry’s hand, Louis leads them into the bathroom on his level. As he locks the door to the tiny space, Harry worries briefly that the other students who want to come in will not be able to. That feeling disappears when Louis lets go of his hand to turn on the shower. The walk home was damp and cold, and Harry has been aching to touch Louis’ skin. Maybe Liam is in their dorm room. Maybe Louis was feeling the autumn chill. Either way, Harry will never turn down the opportunity to touch Louis. 

In the dim light, Louis shimmies out of his jeans and his briefs before pulling his white shirt over his head. Harry, in the fog of warm water beginning to cloud the bathroom, reaches out for him. Their lips meet once, gently, before Louis is smiling over his shoulder and getting into the shower. Harry feels clumsy with affection and something unnameable, something too new to look at for too long, something that flickers when he inspects it too closely, like a faulty street lamp, as he takes off his clothes. 

Louis stands under the water with his hands at his sides. He does not look back when Harry gets in. If anything, he tilts his head to the side, inviting Harry’s mouth to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Harry fits himself against Louis’ wet back, into the space between the spray of too hot water and the rounded parenthesis of Louis’ hips. 

_ I can’t stop thinking about kissing you,  _ Harry confesses with his mouth against Louis’ ear and his hands wrapped around his waist, fit entirely into Louis’ body,  _ I can’t stop thinking about touching you.  _ The other people Harry has said this to have laughed, so he hides his face in Louis’ shoulder, making himself smaller. 

Gentle hands find Harry’s hair,  _ Then don’t.  _

The angle is not quite perfect, but Louis’ lips find Harry’s in the quiet bathroom. Louis kisses Harry with a hand in his hair and a hand on top of Harry’s where they rest on his hips. He tastes like pizza and home, and he smells like a day’s worth of scents that Harry wishes would go down the drain faster, so he can get back to Louis alone. Harry tries to breathe through the feeling clotting his throat, opening his mouth for the clever sweep of Louis’ tongue. When the kisses have become too passionate, when Louis’ neck has begun to hurt from the position, he turns around and allows Harry to wrap him up, doubly, and hold him against the wall. Louis’ hands sweep up his back before they scratch their way back down again. He matches the nips that he gives Harry’s lips with the tender, searching exploration of his fingers. They kiss until Harry can’t feel his lips, until he feels drunk on the drag of Louis’ mouth, until he reaches down to grasp onto the meat of Louis’ thigh and hitch his leg up. 

Louis detaches with an indulgent laugh, his smile filling up the space between them. With his hands on Harry’s face, he whispers,  _ I wish I’d known you sooner. I wish— I wish I’d never wasted my time kissing anyone else.  _

Harry doesn’t know how many other people Louis has kissed. He is not naive: boys who look like Louis do not remain single forever. Not with his smile or his laugh or the way he sways his hips when he knows that Harry is watching him walk. He is a fever dream. Harry does not think that he is the only one who has seen how radiant Louis is. With all of the thoughts rushing through his head, Harry doesn’t say any of this. In an effort to hide his face, to hide the emotion cresting in his chest, he buries his face in Louis’ shoulder, holding him more tightly. 

Louis strokes his hair and allows Harry to mouth at his shoulder until he can speak. Harry is worried that Louis will know he is in love the second he opens his mouth to say,  _ You’re the only person I want to kiss.  _ The rest of that sentence, “for the rest of my life” goes unsaid between them. 

They don’t do anything more than kiss and touch in the shower. Harry memorizes the shuddery, almost moan that mapping Louis’ back with his mouth and teeth causes, and the way Louis laces their fingers together across his hips as Harry explores, trusting him enough to simply stand and feel. Harry kisses over Louis’ thighs and his hooded cock, but Louis doesn’t allow him to do more than kiss and move on. They curl into bed together, flushed from the shower and from the kissing, and Louis nudges his hard cock up against Harry’s stomach, refusing to allow Harry to spoon his back. 

When Harry strokes down his side, a possessive hand coming to rest over his bum under the blankets, Louis says,  _ I like the way you look at me when you want me.  _

Harry is glad the lights are off so that Louis can’t see the heat pooling in his cheeks. Harry is glad that Liam is gone so that Liam doesn’t get to hear the way that Louis whines when Harry nudges a finger up against his dry hole, moving it back and forth without breaching him. Harry is glad the door is locked so that when he finally,  _ finally,  _ slips into Louis, no one will be able to see the way he covers the place where they are connected with a wide hand or the way that he pulls the blankets over their heads, creating a world where just the two of them exist, or the way that Harry cannot stop kissing him, not for a single moment, or the way that they wake up in the middle of the night and come together again, Louis’ hard cock in Harry’s mouth, and Harry sobbing with it when Louis sits on his face. No one knows what they do with the lights off. Not Niall, not Liam, not Harry’s father, no one. 

***

Harry gets the email a week before parent’s weekend. His father has secured him an internship at his company, and he is expected to meet the girl and her family over the weekend. Going to class, doing his homework, avoiding his phone, Harry tries to settle into a routine so that he doesn’t have to think about it. He doesn’t want to deal with it. Not when everything finally feels good again. He and Louis have spoken about his father in hypotheticals thus far. The email, the calls, the texts, all of it piling up on his phone steadily is a very real potential fight. Harry goes to classes with his phone on silent, promises to call back soon, and sees Louis in coffee shops and at his dorm room and everywhere else he can. His relationship, if Niall’s looks are anything to go by, has become serious, and he wants to be with Louis more powerfully than he wants his business degree or his frat or the parties every weekend. They spend most afternoons curled up on the couch or in his bed, their textbooks arrayed around them, until Louis requests an episode of Breaking Bad. The Thursday before his parents come, Harry curls up against the weight of their visit in his bed, surrounded by Louis’ anatomy books. He does not study, can’t think about anything but what his father will say when he turns down the internship. For every bad thought he has, it is matched by a thought about Louis: his smile, his warmth, the hand he keeps petting Harry’s hair as he studies. 

Louis’ got his lower lip caught under the sharp points of his canine teeth, blue eyes crinkled up in the corners,  _ You gonna help me study or you gonna distract me? _

_ Depends _ , Harry’s magnetized to the point where Louis’ pulse keeps jumping. The spot is a little hollow below his jugular, pattering, and Louis is playing it all off, wrapped in the bleak grey of thunderstorms.  _ What’re you gonna study?  _

Fingers snag in the curls below his snapback,  _ ‘ve got a test on the skeletal system tomorrow.  _

Harry almost wishes that Louis would just tug it off, would just curl back up beside him in the hazy, warm, sleepy feeling after their nap. He’s so soft still, snug to Harry’s front, his knees nestled in the pillows under Harry’s butt, grinning from his lap, eyelashes feathered over the slopes of his cheeks, Harry’s worn Harvard shirt gaping off his shoulder. Homework, as always, feels very far away from the bubble they’ve created in Harry’s bed. 

_ I can help you study _ , his single hand can span almost the entire plane of Louis’ warm lower back, and that feels infinitely more important than bones,  _ If you want.  _

Louis whispers, _ Sit still, _ before Harry feels soft fingers moving over his forehead.  _ This _ , Louis’ eyes are fixed on the place where his fingers are,  _ is your frontal bone. _

Being scrutinized by anyone else would make Harry turn his face away from their touch and their gaze. He’s not sure why that reaction is entirely absent with Louis. His palms spread over the dimples at the base of Louis’ spine as Louis’ fingers work down the slope of his nose. Even the frat house has gone silent, everyone and everything holding their breath. 

_ Nasal bone _ , Louis says sagely. 

Unbidden, Harry feels his face scrunch into a smile,  _ Really? _ The thumb that Harry dips into Louis’ waist makes him squirm in Harry’s lap, warm and flirty, right over his cock. They laugh together, even as Louis pulls Harry’s face down to kiss at the point of his nose, his dimples. 

Gently, drumming against the outer part of Harry’s cheekbone, Louis murmurs,  _ This is your zygomatic bone. _ A kiss to his upper lip,  _ Your maxilla, _ to his lower lip,  _ and your mandible.  _

_ What about these?  _ Harry’s drawing his fingers up the bumps of Louis’ spine to try to distract him, leaning back in to kiss him because it’s a waste not to kiss his boy when he’s feisty, it’s a waste not to kiss his boy when he’s warm and confident and smart and right here. 

Louis turns his mouth away to nuzzle at Harry’s temple, _ Lumbar vertebrae, you distraction, and if you go higher— _

Harry slips his hand down, just to see what Louis will do. His skin is supple and smooth, a just barely peach fuzz spread across his lower back that Harry has spent hours licking at. Harry knows nothing about bones, but he could say exactly what the crease of Louis’ thigh tastes like, what the lube they use tastes like on Louis’ skin, how the sun curves around his hipbones when he’s lying out in the backyard. Louis’ body is a town that Harry has been going to for years, has been going to through the good and the bad, the festivals and the natural disasters. He knows every inch and, as he hooks his thumbs around Louis’ hipbones, he knows the younger boy is smiling fondly, fingers twining in the curls at the nape of his neck. 

Louis huffs a small laugh.  _ Ilium, ischium, and sacrum.  _

Scared to voice what he’s feeling out loud, Harry draws back to mouth at the inside of Louis’ wrist. He smells like sleep and day old cologne here, and Harry can feel the way he’s curling his fingers, squirmy and gentle. 

_ The tops of your fingers are phalanges and the middle parts, _ Harry doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Louis’ voice has gone raspier,  _ are metacarpal bones.  _

_ Here? _ Harry kisses up the inner part of Louis’ arm, the velveteen run of skin up to his elbow, just for the way that Louis’ fingers attempt to sink back into his hair. 

Eyes gone soft and focused, Louis whispers  _ Your lower arm is made of the radius and the ulna, but your upper arm is only the humerus bone. Harry— _

_ Here? _ Louis’ rib cage curves, close and warm, under the careful exploration of Harry’s fingers. He knows that they need to talk, that he should say what he’s been waiting months to say, but he’s never been more afraid. They stumbled together, like two ships rocked on an unsteady sea, and that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re meant to be anything more than they are now. Their relationship has been so good so far. What if Harry’s stupid dependence changes that? Nuzzling into the warmth of Louis’ sternum, Harry is mouthing at Louis’ collarbone when there are two fingers hooked under his chin.

Louis is looking at him: head tilted to the side, mouth turned down just slightly, fingers like anchors in Harry’s hair. Unlike last time, the scrutiny makes Harry wants to shrink up. He focuses on the fingers he’s got splayed over Louis’ waist, the even movement of their chests. There’s nothing safe about this moment. They’re caught out on a live wire, and somebody has to jump. 

_ I love you _ , Louis murmurs. 

Instead of coaxing Harry’s face up, Louis leans in to kiss his forehead, his temple, his ear. 

_ I’ve loved you for a long time, and I just— I just wanted you to know.  _

_ Lou _ —Harry doesn’t mean to crack up under the weight of those words. He’s usually the one who says them first, the one who feels like they’re risking more. Hearing Louis say those things so easily means everything. A place in Harry’s heart feels a bit lighter when he meets Louis’ open gaze,  _ Louis.  _

Louis’ voice is as gentle as his mouth when he whispers,  _ Shhh. You’re alright. You don’t have to say it back.  _

_ I do _ , Harry murmurs.  _ I love you too.  _ There are a million moments in his life where’s he felt somehow bare and left to flounder. 

Louis doesn’t let that happen. He kisses Harry sweet and open mouthed and slick, his hands wound up tight in Harry’s hair. He kisses Harry honey warm. He kisses Harry dusk and dawn and daylight, a supernova from millions of miles away. 

Later, when they’re under the white sheets, Louis twines his legs around Harry’s lower back while he fucks him slow and deep. High pitched whimpering noises keep escaping Louis’ lax mouth, his nails biting into Harry’s shoulder blades deep enough to leave marks, the sounds of Harry’s hips the only other noise in the entire room. They kiss, sloppy and wet, as best they can, until Harry nails Louis’ prostate and Louis freezes up before humping back down onto Harry’s cock, contracting and squeezing and shimmying to hit that spot again and again, his mouth open in a silent moan, entire body wound up tight. 

Just like Louis told him before, Harry whispers,  _ Got you, darling, let me.  _

***

_ My parents get in late tomorrow,  _ Harry ruffles a hand back through his hair, carefully avoiding Louis’ gaze. Starbucks had felt like the safest place to have this conversation, the most neutral territory Harry could conjure up. He hadn’t wanted to ruin any of the spaces that are sacred to them and their relationship. He’d thought about not having his bed as a safe place anymore, and the deep, visceral reaction to that had nearly choked him. 

Louis does not move his hands from around his mug of coffee, and Harry’s heart gives a lurch. He hasn’t even shared the worst part. With golden light making sharp lines across Louis’ face, Harry murmurs,  _ They want me to meet the girl. My dad— He wants me to meet the girl he thinks I should date.  _

Even the coffee shop seems to fall quiet for his admission. The reality of the situation seems to sputter between them, a living, breathing thing that has a hand around both of their throats. Harry should just tell his dad the truth. He is in love with a boy named Louis, with his quick silver laugh and his inner thighs and the distracted way he touches his hair when he’s anxious or self conscious. 

Now, Louis tugs at the scarf he’s wearing.  _ I don’t think I can hear about this, Harry.  _

Harry aches to touch him, aches to comfort him. He clutches his cup of black coffee more tightly as his mind reels with the implications of what could happen. 

_ I’ll just—  _ Louis clears his throat once —  _ I’ll just stay away this weekend. I’ve got tests coming up for midterms, and then…  _

_ I’ll come to your dorm room every night,  _ Harry can hear the pleading tone in his voice, the rasp of his fear biting into his words,  _ I won’t meet her, if you want, I’ll—  _

_ You’re going to tell your dad about me?  _ The look in Louis’ eyes could cut steel. 

_ Lou,  _ Harry’s throat feels tight as he says,  _ Kitten.  _

_ I have tests next week,  _ Louis begins to fuss with his backpack, with the books that he’d been studying from. He is getting his things together and getting up to leave when Harry laces his fingers around Louis’ wrist. He doesn’t think that he can do this weekend if Louis is mad at him. Wide, blue eyes watch his tan fingers. 

_ I do love you, y’know? More than anything.  _

Quickly, silently, Louis brushes their mouths together in the middle of Starbucks on a Friday afternoon. Harry tries not to feel like his heart is walking out of the door. 

***

His parents drag him to the fanciest restaurant in town. The meal seems to go on and on: they ask about classes, they ask about his intentions for the summer, they wonder aloud if he may move back to Chicago and start up his position before the fall. He does not respond one way or the other. The walls feel like they are closing in around him as he picks up his wine glass and drinks robotically, eats his salad with the correct fork, and aches for Louis somewhere in the center of his chest. Louis does not text him, does not call. Harry tries to keep the panic in his throat down. 

The girl and her family arrive ten minutes late, harried from an Uber driver who got lost. Harry thinks, objectively, that she is beautiful and polished, the exact kind of person he no longer trusts with his heart. She sinks into the chair next to him, and he can see how carefully she must have done her makeup. Abruptly, he feels bad: he is not interested in anything other than his silent phone and the person who is probably poring over an anatomy book at his desk right now or speaking to his sisters in Madison. 

_ My love,  _ his mom reaches across the table to touch at his wrist. He has been caught glancing down at his phone again,  _ Are you okay?  _

Her eyes are like Louis’: big, warm, easy to tell the truth to. Harry does not want to have this conversation with his father or strangers at the table, so he smiles although he feels watery and off-balance. His voice scratches at his throat when he says,  _ Just tired. Big week of midterms coming up.  _

Anne does not believe him, but she squeezes his wrist tighter and turns to his father,  _ Excuse us for a moment?  _

Of course, everyone at the table nods their assent. His dad has not spared them a glance, caught up in a conversation with Mr. Smith. Harry has spent most of the night feeling relieved that he is not under intenser scrutiny, but now he wonders if Des ever actually looks at Anne, at the way her eyes shine and the fragile divot near her throat. His mom has always been beautiful, but she glows tonight, and Des hasn’t even told her, once. They rise, making their way out to the smoking patio together. His mom doesn’t smoke, but she tugs her shawl tighter around her shoulders and leans against the railing. Harry checks his phone for the fiftieth time that night without bothering to hide his background from his mom. The picture is of Louis in his bed: warm, fluffy haired, eyes bright and playful because he’s stolen Harry’s phone while he was showering. 

His mom’s mouth tilts into a soft, unbidden smile when she sees the picture,  _ He’s good to you?  _

_ The best,  _ Harry says, grinning honestly for the first time that night.  _ He’s really something, y’know?  _

With a mother’s intense intuition, Anne watches his face for a long time after he says that. Harry meets her gaze head on. He is in love, and he thinks that it shows, most days, how well cared for he is, and how well loved he is. It is an unfamiliar garment, but Harry has grown to fit the new look perfectly. Eventually, his mom laughs, light and sweet, into the twilight,  _ It’s like that then?  _

Harry holds her gaze for a moment longer before smiling wildly,  _ It is.  _ He feels reckless and free. 

***

Louis opens the door to his dorm room with bleary, red eyes,  _ It’s late, Harry.  _

_ My mom knows,  _ he whispers, fierce and quiet,  _ I told her — she saw my background, and I told her, and—  _

Harry is mesmerized just watching Louis, sleepy and warm and cozy from his bed. He’d known, of course, that they inhabited their own bubble when they were together. Being outside of it makes looking back in a thousand times more jarring. His heart feels worn bare as he watches Louis toe at the floor, his briefs bunched up around his upper thighs. If tonight was like any other night, Harry would kiss his knees and his ankles, the peach fuzz over his lower back and bum. Harry thinks, sometimes, that he can imagine a life where he does this all of the time. 

Voice rough, Harry can’t stop himself from saying,  _ Can I touch you?  _

Louis’ smile is half muzzy with sleep,  _ Please.  _

Harry’s hands look so big on Louis’ hips and his sides, the nape of his neck. After the long night and the smell of different cloying perfumes and colognes, being wrapped up in Louis’ arms and kissing at his throat feels like coming home. Louis leans into the touches with his eyes closed. They could be in the hallway of their apartment, quiet and in love, reacquainting themselves after Harry has come home from a late gig. Louis will wake up tomorrow and go to his nursing job. They will climb into bed together and curl up under a blanket that smells like the both of them. Louis’ fingers along the back of Harry’s neck make him shiver and go boneless. 

_ Can we go to bed?  _ Louis whispers into his ear, his lips just barely brushing against Harry’s skin.  _ I wanna kiss you in my bed.  _

They kiss once, chaste, before Louis is pulling him by the hand into his dorm room. 

*** 

The next day, feeling stronger, Harry declines a breakfast invitation from the warmth of Louis’ bed. Louis is sleeping next to him, but he wakes up when Harry’s father’s voice crescendoes down the phone line, like a storm that has just broken. 

_ What the hell does that mean?  _ His dad is thundering down the line.

Harry presses his fingers into his bottom lip a bit harsher, flinches at the soft press of Louis’ foot against his ankle. They both stay silent within the dark room. 

_ Harry? What the hell— _

_ I’ll be home in a couple of weeks, dad,  _ he says, voice shaking,  _ we can talk about it then.  _

_ What reason do you have for turning down this opportunity? I want to hear it now.  _

Harry tries not to feel anything when he looks at Louis, feathery hair soft against a pillow, the creases his comforter makes against his cheek. He loves Louis. He promised Louis that they could spend time together this summer. They were meant to stay here and get internships. Anything so they could be together. A single phone call shouldn’t be able to bring all of that crashing around his feet. 

_ I don’t—  _ Louis moves his ankle from against Harry’s leg,  _ Can I call you back? Please?  _

_ Why?  _ His dad is escalating to a place that Harry fears. 

Without thinking about the repercussions, Harry ends the call and tosses his phone onto the floor. All he can hear in his own ears is the echo of his own heavy breathing and the expectant, angry weight of his father’s disappointment. Beside him, sharp and shuttered, Louis draws shapes against the pillow he was napping on. 

Between them on the bed, the ghost of all of the things they aren’t saying takes shape and makes itself comfortable. Louis gives him a moment to collect himself and draw a shuddering breath before he says. 

_ You don’t what, Harry?  _

It’s exhausting, all of it. Every part of his life turns sour, as soon as his dad gets a hold of it, and that’s defeating. Harry feels too young and too scared of losing Louis to say anything. Fidgeting a hand through his hair, Harry whispers,  _ I don’t want to talk about it right now. That was what I was gonna say. _

_ Right,  _ Louis sits up, suddenly ramrod straight next to Harry, arms crossed protectively over his bare chest,  _ So… Do you plan to talk to them about me at all?  _

_ I am,  _ Harry looks down at his own, white knuckled fingers against the bedspread,  _ I will. I just— Not right now.  _

_ When?  _

_ I’m trying,  _ Harry whispers, shaking,  _ I am. I’m trying to talk to him. It’s hard, Lou. You don’t—  _

_ I don’t what?  _ Louis throws off the covers without saying anything else. Jerky, moving around Harry’s room like he’s in a cage, Louis begins to put on his shoes, stuff his hands into his mittens, pull his hat down over his head. 

Harry’s heart is breaking.

***

They spend that day in an uneasy kind of truce until the time comes for the frat’s Saturday night party. Harry doesn’t think he can sit in uncomfortable silence beside Louis for a minute more, and then he’s nominating them for the beer run. He’s thumbing at his lower lip, absent minded and scared, watching as Louis rises from the couch to go find his Vans, without saying a single word to anyone, wherever he kicked them off last night. Even in one of Harry’s sweatshirts, Louis still feels a thousand miles away. Right now, the only familiar things about Louis are the sway of his hips when he knows that Harry’s looking and the way he fiddles with his sleeves as he walks around the frat house, demanding that anyone not in the living room help him find his shoes. Niall is kind enough, as he closes Harry’s fingers around a wad of bills, to not say anything about the sheen of Harry’s eyes. He squeezes Harry’s knee for a brief moment before turning back to his beer and the game of Call of Duty that’s blaring in the living room.

With shaking fingers, Harry follows after Louis’ retreating form, slipping the money into his back pocket. The hallways of the frat house clear for him without him asking anyone. That, combined with Louis slamming the front door without even looking at Harry, propel him to pull his hood up over his beanie. If he could just hide the honesty on his face. Harry’s heart feels like a swollen fault line, like it’s beating shallow under the skin of his cheeks, in his temples, in his wrists and ankles. Fingers shaking, he pulls on a pair of Nikes and heads out the front door. 

Louis is sitting in the front seat staring determinedly at his phone when Harry climbs into the driver’s seat. Without a word, he starts the car and backs out of the driveway. Driving, at the very least, gives Harry something to focus on. The hand where Louis drew the tiny “l” feels emptier, feels like a sacrificial offering on the console between them, feels desperate in a way that Harry has never had to be with Louis. The low hum of the radio doesn’t cover up the exhausted way that Louis sighs or the anxious tapping of his nails against his phone screen. Just when Harry is going to ask him to stop, they pull into the liquor store parking lot. 

Everything is sherbet orange when Louis slams the door behind him and rushes into the liquor store. Harry takes his time: he has to force himself to take a deep breath using breathing techniques a misguided therapist taught him freshman year. It won’t help the problem, because Louis is impatient at the best of times, but everything feels clearer when the bite of cold air is tickling in his chest, the meaty part of his palm digging into the sharp ridges of his keys. When he walks through the doors, Louis is standing against a cart, hip cocked, unimpressed. 

Without waiting for Harry to say anything, Louis says,  _ ‘M gonna get the wine. You get the vodka. I’ll meet you at the beers.  _

Ridiculously, even in the center of the liquor store, florescent lights glaring down at him, Harry immediately, aggressively, feels the need to pretend like everything is normal. He snags a basket with trembling hands, tears leaking down his cheeks, going about his business like he’s not crying. People look at him with wide eyes when he passes them, and all he can do is walk away without saying anything. There’s something clawing its way up his throat, ferocious and terrible, fighting him for his own air. He’s walking into the vodka aisle, hood and beanie still on, reaching for a cheap plastic bottle, when he finally cracks.

Lukewarm bottle of vodka clutched in his hand, Harry lets out the sob that’s been sitting in his throat. Everything feels worse when he can’t talk about it to Louis, and Louis is freezing him out as effectively as he’s ever done. Harry’s tears are embarrassing, especially in public, and he can only reach a hand up to cover his face while he holds the vodka and cries and cries, not even aware of the people glancing into the aisle concernedly. Something in his chest has come loose, something essential, something worn and rusty. 

Harry feels like he’s been crying for a long time when someone says, faint and anxious,  _ Oh, darling.  _

Abandoning the cart at the end of the aisle, Louis comes forward with his hands outstretched, sleeves of Harry’s sweatshirt pushed back to expose the soft skin of his wrist. Somehow, that makes it worse. Harry stifles a sob against his own hand before Louis can get to him. 

_ Sh,  _ Louis’ hands catch the hinges of his jaw,  _ Don’t cry, Harry. Please don’t cry.  _

Harry can do nothing but sniffle loudly and clutch at Louis’ warm wrists. Putting the last couple of days into words feels like punishing Louis for things they’re meant to have gotten past, feels dangerously like being his father. Harry starts shaking his head before he can stop himself, back and forth, watching as Louis’ eyes widen.

_ Darling,  _ Louis whispers, he’s touching the puffy, soft places under Harry’s eyes,  _ What’s wrong?  _

_ You’re leaving me,  _ is out of his mouth before he has time to think it through. Trembling, wet, exhausted, Harry just keeps repeating it like he’s broken. 

_ ‘M frustrated,  _ Louis murmurs, stroking back and forth across Harry’s cheeks,  _ ‘M tired of having to be in second place for your dad, but ‘m not going anywhere, Harry.  _

Hitching in an unsteady breath takes all of the energy that Harry has left. Somehow, between one second and the next, he’s collapsing into the warm juncture of Louis’ shoulder to hide from the harsh lights above them and the curious eyes of people who have no idea what he’s going through. There are some days where things feel okay, where his depression feels more manageable. Today, everything feels like another pit in his stomach. He wants to go and curl up in his bed, but he’s got this party, and he’s got all of the guys at the frat house, and it just. He’s crying harder before he realizes that Louis is talking to him. 

_ You’re okay,  _ Louis murmurs again and again,  _ You’re gonna be okay, I promise, kitten.  _

Somehow, clouded over in Harry’s mind, they buy the alcohol and get home in one piece. No one in the frat asks questions when Louis takes him upstairs, his hood pulled down low over his eyes, and throws the keys to Niall. Harry couldn’t really say what was going on between one second and the next. 

Really, he just remembers Louis. Trembling hands and gentle fingers prying at the beanie he’s wearing, carefully combing all of his hair back into a bun. A nearly silent  _ you wanna keep this on?  _ before he’s holding up his arms, Louis’ trailing touch raising goosebumps against his chest and sides, the undersides of his elbows. The slope of Louis’ back against his hands when he tugs him into a hug and the way he doesn’t squirm when Harry noses at his sternum, even though he is always giggling when Harry does things like that. In the half light of evening, Louis cuddles up to him, silent and still, stuttering like a caught bird when Harry’s lips touch his skin. Harry tries not to think of himself in terms of halves and wholes, because it makes what he has with Louis feel urgent. Fisting his hands in the back of Louis’ shirt, Harry whispers,  _ I’m not going to be mad if you leave,  _ because that is what he’s meant to do. The words taste like ashes on his tongue, his entire body freezing, but he knows that if he doesn’t say them, if Louis doesn’t give him assurance, he’s going to go crazy. 

Fingers working at the tense nape of Harry’s neck, Louis breathes,  _ You’re a menace.  _

Harry just holds him tighter. Doesn’t dare think about those words more than he has to. 

_ I’m— _

_ Sh,  _ Louis whispers,  _ ’M not leaving. ‘M not going anywhere.  _

***

Leant against the dark wood frame of his bedroom, Harry watches as the white moonlight catches along the strong lines of Louis’ thighs and the pink, hairless skin of his balls as they drag across his sheets. Louis’ wearing nothing but a shirt of his, one of the ones from the frat, worn thin and soft, his hips jackrabbiting against the mattress again and again, his breathing echoing heavily in the room, little whines when he catches his balls just right. His feathery hair is dusky against the sheets, his hands clenching and unclenching rhythmically. Harry thinks that if he were in bed with Louis, he’d let him keep doing this, just to hear the way he moans  _ Harry _ so high and raspy, how that word drags like the sea against sand, cresting and breaking. 

Louis lets out a huff of air the next time he cants his hips downward before just dropping onto his front. Harry can see the smooth, hairless skin of his balls as it drags across the sheets, his legs twitching wider and wider to press closer to the bed. He doesn’t even know that Harry’s watching: hips circling, hands caught up in the sheets, hair wild down across the nape of his neck, Louis mewls and whines, working himself off against the mattress.

The small tan line of his back is so inviting that Harry has to physically hold onto the door to stop himself from going further into their bedroom just to touch. Harry isn’t sure how he’s avoided wrapping a hand around his cock for this long. Usually, when he gets off, Harry gets himself off thinking about Louis. Louis usually has at least two fingers stuffed into his hole if he’s going to get off alone. This person, this beautiful boy gyrating against his blankets, hole twitching closed on nothing, is no one that Harry has ever seen before. 

Louis fucks his hips forward again, back muscles bunching, and whines a breathy  _ Harry _ that finally propels him forward.

The entire room smells of sex: heady and close and musky cologne, Louis’ small body sagged against the pillows. Harry doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if there’s anything he should say. They’re together, but watching Louis hump against his bed feels somehow worse than watching him masturbate. He was supposed to be at his Biology lab right now. 

Hesitantly, fingers pressed into the line of Louis’ spine, Harry leans down to kiss at the point of his shoulder blade. 

Snuffling into the pillow, Louis murmurs,  _ Hi.  _

_ Hello, baby,  _ Harry feels like he can’t touch Louis enough, can’t possibly communicate how much he loves Louis in any way that he would understand. Restless, Louis’ small hips move back and forth in Harry’s grasp, his shoulder blades shifting as he leans back into Harry. They come together like they always seem to: desperate and awake and wanting. 

_ Missed you,  _ he whispers,  _ Love you.  _

_ Love you,  _ kissing down the center of Louis’ back, slick with sweat, makes Harry shiver, trying to make room on the bed for himself. They should be getting ready, packing their bags to leave campus for winter break. This, the close warmth of Louis’ thighs under his hands, the goosebumps erupting across his skin, is infinitely more important. They won’t see each other for a couple of weeks with Harry being in Chicago with his family and Louis, back in Madison, with his mom and his siblings. No one will be around to press kisses to the bend of Louis’ thighs where they meet his bum. 

So careful, the warm press of his tongue to the pucker of Louis’ hole still makes Louis seize up, his fists clenching in the bed sheets. He tastes of musk and sweat, rocks back like his entire body is focused on the slick slide of Harry’s tongue across his skin. Harry can never touch enough of him when he’s like this: he feels electric, feels holy. More responsive than ever, Louis mewls against the pillow when Harry finally hooks his thumbs around the outside of Louis’ hole to keep him open: wet and shining, clenching closed on Harry’s fingers. Louis never lets Harry know when it’s too much: just whimpers and ruts forward into the sheets, cries a bit harder when Harry presses a last kiss to his bum.

_ Sh,  _ Harry murmurs, gathering Louis into his arms,  _ ‘ve got you.  _

Louis mouths at the hinge of his jaw, at the vein in his neck before he’ll kiss him. He’s so alive and squirmy in Harry’s arms. Their lips meet already open, Louis’ tongue flitting into his mouth as his hard cock bumps against Harry’s. Chasing the softness of Louis’ body, chasing the fleeting sparks between their bodies, Harry presses his hips up, jostling Louis. They’ve talked about how much Louis likes to be manhandled during sex. For some reason, Harry is still never expecting the way that Louis goes liquid.

A small hand around the cross necklace dangling from his throat, Louis whispers,  _ Gonna put your cock in me?  _

Harry smooths a hand down the plane of Louis’ back. He’s nuzzling into Harry’s neck, demure and unwilling to do any work after his orgasm. There are so many Louis’, so many versions of the boy he loves, but this may be Harry’s favorite: using his cross necklace to steer Harry’s lips, greedy but languid, refusing to do anything but wanting to be fucked. 

Louis is still a little wet from being rimmed. He jolts, when Harry rubs the dry pads of his fingers over his hole. Harry does want to be in him. Always, perpetually, but he still tilts Louis’ chin up with his other hand to look into his eyes,  _ You wanna go another round?  _

His face scrunches up,  _ Wanted you here before.  _

Not kissing Louis, when he’s like this, feels impossible. Harry leans down to meet his small, slick lips, to taste the way he sags into Harry’s body and his mouth. Louis tugs on his necklace when Harry begins to move his tongue, in and out, his fingers teasing up the seam between Louis’ balls. 

Quietly, touching at the base of Louis’ cock, Harry whispers,  _ I was here before. Watched you come all over my bed.  _

Louis kisses Harry’s chin,  _ Please put your fingers in me or ‘M gonna get the vibe. _

_ Is that meant to be a threat?  _ Harry opens his palm before bringing it down lightly on Louis’ left bum cheek. He remembers when they talked about this, when Louis came with a vibrator inside of him and Harry’s palm print on his bum. All of that spread behind them makes Harry feel inexplicably warmer: he knows what Louis likes in bed, knows that, as he reaches for the lube, Louis will rut against his front and paw at his shirt. He’s careful with the lube, despite Louis’ squirming.  _ You using a vibe in front of me?  _

The first touch of a finger to his hole always makes Louis whimper for a kiss.  _ No,  _ he whispers into Harry’s mouth,  _ but it is supposed to make you put another finger in my bum.  _

_ Nope,  _ Harry pushes in more deeply, just to pull out again. Louis’ body is as warm as ever, as soft as ever, eventually opens to Harry’s fingers. Louis would never say it, but he likes getting fingered. Harry’s utmost attention, his kisses, feeling him get turned on, all of these things work Louis up like nothing else. Louis’ legs spread as he gets more anxious, his balls dragging over the top of Harry’s sweatpants and leaving behind pre-come. 

When Harry adds a second finger, Louis bites into the “a” on his shoulder. They kiss and move together, Louis growing more and more impatient the more Harry scissors his fingers without actually giving him his cock. He doesn’t want to hurt Louis, even though they’ve talked about it and they both like a bit of pain. Harry prefers the kind of pain that won’t leave Louis limping to class tomorrow. It’s easy to distract him with kisses and praise too, keeps him smiling and fuzzy, warm on Harry’s chest. Harry knows that he isn’t the first person who was with Louis, but it still feels huge, every time they close the door to his bedroom and come together. Harry would never call it “making love” out loud, because Louis would kill him, even as he rides Harry’s fingers, thighs bending and flexing, spread wide around Harry’s hips, his cock rubbing against Harry’s tee shirt. It is though: knowing the way Louis smells in the crease of his thigh, knowing the ticklish place near his ribcage and the mole he has, just below his hipbone. Harry is easing a third finger past Louis’ tight rim when Louis finally gets impatient enough to do something about it. 

A lube slick hand over Harry’s cock, his sweatpants moved to just below his balls, and then the warm clutch of Louis’ body as he lines himself up and slides back. Louis will talk a big game, right until this moment. Within the cage of Harry’s arms, he goes limp. Soft and gentle, careful, Harry tilts his face up just to make sure he’s still okay. 

_ Alright?  _ Harry whispers, running his fingers over the lube tacky stretch of Louis’ hole. 

Instead of answering, Louis shivers. 

Louis, tight against his chest and refusing to move, makes fucking him a little bit harder. Harry wouldn’t have him any other way. In the half gold of the lamp light, Harry wraps his arms double around Louis’ waist and thrusts up, chasing the warm clutch of his body and the way he accents each thrust with a little  _ uh uh uh.  _ The skin of Louis’ back grows sweaty under Harry’s touch, and Harry can feel himself struggling to match his own pace, to keep up with his own fast and shallow. It feels good, all of that friction, easy and familiar, the way they breath close. Still, looking down at Louis’ scrunched up face, feeling the way he exhales shakily as soon as Harry stops, makes Harry cradle him to his chest as he flips them over. 

On his back, with a hand still around Harry’s cross, Louis makes a plaintive, small sound. 

Without even having to ask, Harry leans down to his mouth: he needs kisses for assurance, kisses so he knows that Harry won’t stop in the middle of this, so he knows that Harry won’t leave. Louis, when he’s feeling difficult, kisses with quick flickers of his tongue and nips of his teeth. Like this, caught on Harry’s cock, smearing pre-come across the tiny swell of his belly, he merely opens his mouth and moves his lips, sucks on Harry’s tongue with a hand in his hair. It is one of Harry’s favorite ways to kiss Louis. 

When they break apart, Harry nuzzles into Louis’ neck and begins to thrust again, long and deep, drawing fractured moans from Louis’ mouth. Louis clings to his shoulders, keep making shuddery, stilted, half moans. Harry feels a moment of intense pleasure at knowing that the frat knows what they are doing in here, knowing that the boys can hear how good he takes care of Louis. They move together, back and forth, ebbing and flowing, for long moments. Louis takes it: legs spread wide, fingers curled, pleasure building at the base of his spine. Harry runs his fingers through Louis’ hair, touches at where they’re connected, wishes he could do better for this boy that he loves outside of his rumpled bed with the creased up white sheets. 

_ I want an ‘l,’  _ Louis murmurs, out of breath, into the place near his ear. He’s making these small, shivery whimpering sounds and clenching his toes against Harry’s back. 

Knowing that Louis is close, Harry turns his attention to the warm, fragrant spot under Louis’ ear. Despite knowing that Louis is talking about his tattoos for his mom and Gemma, he fears trying to talk about it now, fears that the exertion of fucking Louis or his own emotions would choke him up,  _ Yeah? Where?  _

Louis’ fingers, small and warm, spread wide across the uneven thump of his heart within his chest. Harry loses his breath between one thrust and the next.

Fingers pressed down, just enough to be significant, Louis whispers,  _ Right here.  _

*** 

Too late, they go out to get pizza. The frat house sleeps around them as they tiptoe down the stairs, as they close the door as quietly as possible. They bump together on the sidewalk, unwilling to be any farther apart than necessary, unwilling to look their urgency in the eyes. Louis is never more than an arm’s length away from him, and Harry feels the urge to kiss him every time he gets caught staring too intently. He is like a magnet, drawn in by Louis’ warm skin and soft eyes, desperate to prove that he is serious about this, about them. Between the pools of light cast by street lamps, Harry looks at the dip of Louis’ spine and thinks about how his entire life is a constellation drawn into sharp focus by the deft movements of Louis’ fingers and the straight lines of his legs and the heat of his heart. Harry knows that he needs to apologize, that he needs to say something to make up for the last week, but the words keep getting stuck under his fear, under the constant thrumming  _ I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared  _ echoing in his head and heart. To still the panic in his throat, Harry focuses on the strength in Louis’ hands and the way he smiles at Harry as he opens the door to the pizza place. 

They order without letting go of each other, and the man behind the counter smiles at them like he understands. Harry settles on an old black leather stool to wait for their order, after he pays. Sleep presses against his eyelids, but Louis gets a glass of water for them to share before he comes back into the center of Harry’s legs, and Harry can feel himself smiling too. 

It could be the pizza place or it could be the night, but Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist, and nothing bad happens: the low music keeps humming, the noise of drunk college students flirting and fumbling back to their dorms continues, the man behind the counter keeps counting the till, humming something under his breath that sounds a lot like Green Day. Harry measures the beat of his heart in time with the sound of Louis’ breathing, and the low, contented noise Louis makes when he leans back into Harry’s body, his hands on top of Harry’s. He is clearly tired, whether from studying, from his orgasms, or from showering in the near blackness of the frat house with Harry’s hands on his hips. Still, he watches the man behind the counter with a small smile on his face. Harry thinks about how his heart feels at home: Louis’ love is not like his dad’s, all static and sharp when he looks too closely. Louis has compassion for everyone and everything, and Harry feels honored, floored, really, to be at the center of that orbit. Without thinking about it, Harry noses into the back of Louis hair. 

The apology that Harry needs to say rises on his tongue, into the back of his throat, powerfully. His voice quavers, but Harry whispers,  _ I’m sorry,  _ and Louis squeezes his hands, and the world doesn’t end.  _ I’m scared,  _ Harry mouths against the back of Louis’ neck. He feels safer, hiding his worries and fears here. It would be too much to look into Louis’ eyes and admit that he wants their future so much that he is willing to abandon his carefully planned life for one that is messy and hard and spent making Louis happy. He is only twenty-one. What does he know about giving things up? 

Louis turns around to look at him in a way that feels like he is taking a measurement, that feels like he is calculating what he can say that will not scare Harry off or startle him. Louis is touching his face, his curls, when he says,  _ I know.  _

_ How?  _ Harry can’t stop the way his hands fist in the back of Louis’ sweatshirt. Maybe he has been too obvious or too needy or too— 

_ When you touch me,  _ Louis thumbs over his lower lip, traces the dip where Harry is always teething at it,  _ I can feel it when you touch me, like you can’t touch me enough.  _

_ I can’t,  _ Harry is distracted by the movement of Louis’ hands and the feeling of nails rasping against the back of his neck,  _ I could never touch you enough.  _

Louis leans into Harry’s space, his mouth so close that all Harry would need to do is lift his head,  _ You could touch me all day, every day, I would let you.  _

Harry snorts, a hand around the back of Louis’ elegant neck,  _ I would never stop.  _

_ Then don’t,  _ Louis’ hands burn gold on his cheeks,  _ I’m not asking you to.  _

In the middle of the pizza shop, in the middle of the night, Harry tilts Louis’ lips up just enough to reach the dramatic cupid bow of his top lip and the thin, determined line of his lower lip. He kisses each, just once, while Louis makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat. Louis’ eyes are closed when Harry opens his, just to look at Louis’ face and gauge his reaction to the public affection. A smile, small and warm, lingers in the corners of Louis’ mouth. Harry didn’t know that relationships could be like this. There aren’t any caveats here: just himself and Louis, together, smiling into each other’s spaces, their hands warm and the night cold, the private knowledge of their waiting bed between them. Harry is stroking across Louis’ hipbones with his thumbs when Louis pulls him down into a longer kiss, something slick and wanting, something that no one could mistake for anything other than Harry’s heart in his throat and his tightened hands on Louis’ waist and cradling the back of his neck. 

Louis’ smile has gone fully fond, fully soft around the edges, when he tips back to look into Harry’s eyes,  _ Tell me a secret, Harry Styles.  _

Harry can feel the lump in his throat forming as he works, hard, to hold Louis’ gaze. His voice does not shake or tremble when he whispers,  _ Wanna make you a Styles.  _

_ Wanna have babies with me?  _

Thinking about having babies with Louis makes something in Harry’s chest come loose. Of course, he wants to have children with Louis. Instead, too honest, Harry flushes as he says,  _ Wanna have everything with you.  _

Outside the window, an ambulance screams by. A group of floppy-haired, preppy looking boys tumble into the store with their hands around each other. The smell of warm red sauce and too strong cologne mingle. Harry doesn’t see or hear any of that: all he can see is Louis’ warm, crinkly eyes, and the deep dimple in his cheek when he grins. The pizza timer goes off, and Harry stares, stares, stares, always caught in Louis’ eyes. 

** 

Harry’s mom calls on Monday, late in the day. Louis is asleep in Harry’s bed, his anatomy book opened beside him, a blanket clutched to his chest. Quiet, so as not to wake him up from his well-deserved sleeping, Harry runs his hand, once, down the center of Louis’ back and kisses the nape of his neck before tiptoeing out to the hallway on silent feet. In the darkened silence, Harry takes the call. 

_ Harry,  _ his mom’s voice always makes something warm unfurl in his chest, like coming inside out of the cold. In the hushed upper hallway, Anne’s words comes across clear as a bell when she says,  _ How are you, my Harry?  _

It is difficult for Harry to resist the urge to run a hand down his face and sag against the wall. He is tired, if he’s being honest. Midterms are kicking his ass, the frat feels tense as everyone worries about their own tests, and Louis is asleep in his bed, even though they still haven’t necessarily figured out what is going on with Harry standing up to his dad or how he can continue doing that. On top of all of that, Harry thinks that he may have failed his management midterm earlier in the morning. Increasingly, as the break draws nearer, Harry finds himself struggling to do much more than sleep and eat and curl up with Louis against all of his fears. He worries sometimes that no one would understand the tightness in his chest. 

Instead of saying any of these things, Harry picks at a string on the maroon hoodie he pulled on. His voice does not tremble when he says,  _ I’m okay. How are you?  _

_ I’m alright,  _ his mom’s laugh is soft, self-conscious on the other side of the line,  _ I know this is silly, but I had one of those mother’s intuition moments where I just—  _ Harry can almost picture the way that her dark eyes crinkle up with her grins, the hand that she undoubtedly has curled up under her chin,  _ I just felt like I needed to call you. To check on you.  _

When he was younger, his mom used to text him during the school day. They were simple texts, small texts, just offers of encouragement and love that made him smile into his textbooks or while he was running during track practice. She still does that now. More and more, Harry forgets to answer. In trying to shake off his relationship with his father and all of the emotional baggage that he has from that, Harry thinks that he may have forgotten about his mom a little bit or forgotten about her feelings. He feels the guilt creep in, on top of everything else, and the ache constricts his breath for a moment. 

_ My love,  _ his mom’s soothing voice cuts through the mess in his head,  _ I’m worried about you.  _

_ Don’t be,  _ Harry manages to get out around the lump in his throat,  _ I’m okay, I promise, I’m just tired.  _

_ I love you more than anything,  _ her voice has gone softer, more watery,  _ I only want the best for you, Harry, and I’m so—  _

A long time ago, Harry realized that his mom was caught somewhere between him and his dad. The realization was hampered by his own desire to always see the best in his mom, and the way something vast and unknowable yawned in his chest just to think about it. He remembers being with Zayn, in Colorado, the calls left on his phone that were half disapproval and half this same kind of too-much, stifling love that was born of guilt. He remembers the lies: I’ll leave him, we can go somewhere else, things will be better. His mom’s quiet voice goes on in the background, but it all sounds hollow under the beating heart of the truth. Harry twitches a hand back through his hair in something that has been carefully guarded against for fear of blossoming into agitation. He is taking a deep breath, getting ready to end the call, when the creaking of his door startles him out of his wet-eyed half-dreaming. 

Standing in the doorway, the blanket he was using wrapped up around his shoulders, Louis’ forehead creases with concern. There are pillow marks on his cheek. 

Harry does not say anything as he crosses the small space to be closer to Louis, to his warmth, and the uneven tilt of his mouth, not quite awake, but smoky-eyed and gentle with Harry’s heart. Head tilted just barely to the side, Louis mouths,  _ Okay?  _

Harry nods. His mom has gone quiet on the other line, and he wants to have something placating to say, but he is out of words, out of comfort. In lieu of anything else, Harry says,  _ Can I call you later? I just. I can’t talk about this right now, mom.  _

Her assent is silenced in the face of Harry taking the phone away from his ear to give Louis his full attention. The space between his hands and Louis’ hips is too far, always, but especially when he is sleep-warm and just awake-soft. 

_ Sleep okay?  _ Harry asks. 

Louis lets the blanket shift down his bare golden shoulder,  _ You left.  _

_ I didn’t want to wake you.  _

The blanket, a soft one that Harry commandeered from the living room of the frat, threatens to fall off of Louis’ shoulders entirely, leaving him bare in the hallway. He is wearing only a pair of boxers and some woolen socks that he stubbornly refuses to return to Harry because he says that they keep his Vans from slipping off when he’s walking to class. Harry remembers smiling across the table they were sharing at Starbucks when Louis told him that. He’d moved his foot against where Louis’ was under their table, and Louis had stuck his tongue out before going back to his English paper. With the power of a breaking wave, Harry’s entire world, everything he wants, focuses down to the points of Louis’ collarbones and the sweet swell of his stomach over the top of his briefs. 

Louis does not waver when he opens the blanket, his arms wide for Harry. He just looks at Harry across the dark hallway between them — defiant and beautiful and wholly the person that Harry loves, his lower teeth caught along his lip — before he says,  _ C’mere.  _

Harry crosses the hall in two long strides. His mom, his family, all of it can wait. Louis comes first. 

***

Winter break approaches so quickly that the time feels like it is slipping through Harry’s fingers. He tries to be calm about going home, about facing his father, but he can’t help but feel the tension surrounding him. They have sex whenever they’re in the same room together, like they are trying to build up a basis for when they are gone, but Harry still feels the worry like an itch. Desperate, aching, so in love he feels bereft at just the thought of Louis being somewhere else, Harry takes pictures, fills his camera roll until the first two hundred pictures on his phone are all of Louis. They spend the time they are not preparing for their finals in a kind of speculative silence, each waiting for the other person to bring it up. Harry will catch Louis staring at the side of his face, watching his hands, and he will wonder what is going on, why this love feels so revelatory. 

Louis touches at the wispy curls near the nape of Harry’s neck, his fingernails scratching lightly. Harry can only lean into the caress and breathe, try to breathe through it. 

Everything boils over the day that Louis is getting ready to leave to go home. They are in the living room, staring across the suddenly unreachable space, when Louis finally brings it up. 

_ I feel like,  _ Louis picks at the bottom of his shirt for a long time, watching the methodical rhythm of his own hands. Harry can feel his heart sinking, lower and lower,  _ I feel like this is unhealthy, sometimes.  _

Helpless, the remnants of Christmas decorations spread across the floor around them, Harry remains silent. In some ways, what Louis’ said is true. He doesn’t trust anyone to want him like Louis does. No one else ever has. Why should Louis be any different? Harry drags a hand back through his hair, watching the strings of lights flickering across the floor, twinkling back at him. 

_ Harry,  _ Louis’ voice cracks. 

Fumbling, a hand in his hair, eyes watering, Harry shrugs,  _ What d’you want me to say?  _ It feels worse that they haven’t talked about what happened. Not the things they said, not the frustrated way that Harry cried in the liquor store, not Louis’ tenderness in the aftermath.  _ I don’t know what you want.  _

Louis tries to talk, but all that comes out is a half wounded, half desperate broken sound that refuses to die in the space between them. There are so, so many things they should talk about. Everything they’re not saying keeps ending up in the room with them, keeps ending up in bed with them, in the cramped space between the ceiling and Louis’ bunk. If Harry felt like he could touch Louis without getting hurt, he’d do it. 

_ I wanted something easier with you,  _ is what Harry eventually manages to push past the grit in his throat.  _ I wanted,  _ his laugh tastes like sadness,  _ I wanted something that made me dance again. I don’t know. _

When he looks at Louis, across the floor of fairy lights, Louis is finally crying. Quietly, stubbornly rubbing a finger back and forth between his eyes, lips trembling with the effort of not sobbing, Louis waves a hand between them, vague and helpless. 

Harry waits for him to speak, pinching at the inside of his wrist so he doesn’t cry. 

_ I love you, y’know?  _ Louis says, voice watery,  _ I just feel, like. Like, I’m your only life raft, and you’re drowning, and I can’t hold you up all alone.  _

It feels like a betrayal when Harry’s eyes finally spill over, salty sweet against his lips. He doesn’t know how to make sense of love, how to make sense of the way that Louis seems to genuinely care for him, no matter what. Instead of saying that, he covers his eyes with the palm of his hand. Abruptly, Harry wishes that his mom was here. He wants to go back to her hotel room with her and curl up in the warm, Burberry scented indent she leaves behind. He wants to stop fighting for something that feels so fruitless. 

_ Harry,  _ Louis’ touch is fleeting against his waist,  _ Don’t cry.  _

_ Are you gonna go?  _ Harry’s voice comes out half choked, half exhausted. If Louis is just going to go, they shouldn’t drag it out. Neither of them needs that. 

A small hand flattens against his heart,  _ I think we just need some time away from this. Just to think about it. _

_ Don’t want you to be with anyone else,  _ they’re back in the kitchen, illuminated only by the ghostly glow of the microwave,  _ I couldn’t— _

_ My darling,  _ Louis’ thumb is moving back and forth across his chest in the same rhythm of his heart, and that feels like too much. Someone who is breaking your heart shouldn’t be able to be so kind in the same second. Harry feels like the walls of the frat house are closing in around him as their time runs out, as the taxi coming for Louis gets closer and closer,  _ I’m not going to be with anyone else. I just. I need to think, and you need to think, and— _

_ I love you,  _ Harry hiccups,  _ I do, I promise. I do love you.  _

Louis’ tears spill over again when he squeezes his eyes closed. 

They stand there, silent, waiting for the taxi that will take Louis away, unsure, saying nothing. When the car finally pulls up outside, Harry can only touch at the place where his cross necklace hangs from Louis’ neck and whisper,  _ Please don’t— Please don’t stop loving me.  _

_ I couldn’t,  _ Louis laughs, that same fond, soft laugh from the upstairs hallway, from all of their kisses,  _ I could never.  _

Harry lets Louis leave because it is the right thing to do. His heart is shuddering in his chest, and he feels empty, wane, like he could sit down on the floor and not get up for a long time. Eventually, Niall finds him in the living room and brings him up to his bedroom. He sleeps for an amount of time that is measured by the crescendoing noises from downstairs and the side of his pillow that smells more strongly of Louis. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his parents will know that something is wrong. The urge to cry keeps cresting in his chest. His eyes are already sore and red, after-tear sticky. He shouldn’t. 

***

He misses his flight home, misses the calls from his parents, misses all of it. Thinks of nothing but Louis in Madison, the hole in his chest. Thinks about  _ and you’re drowning, and I can’t hold you up all alone  _ over and over, until the words turn into a low hum in the back of his mind, like the sussing of the sea over sand. 

*** 

Harry wakes up to the feeling of Niall sinking onto the edge of his bed. He looks tired: from finals, from the parties, from the insanity of Christmas preparations, and the frantic packing required after all of that to get ready to go home. Hair ruffled and dark against his forehead, Niall breathes out once before he begins speaking. 

_ Think it’s only a five hour drive to Madison, and I think you could drop me off in Eau Claire on the way. Told my dad I’d be leaving tomorrow morning, so I could be home in time for the Packer’s game.  _ Niall shrugs, just once, just enough to let Harry know that he won’t hold it against Harry, either way,  _ Let me know, yeah?  _

His hair is already mussed against the pillow, but Harry nods without moving his head. It doesn’t really get any worse than the feeling in his chest: Louis hasn’t reached out since he left yesterday, the frat house is becoming quieter around him as everyone leaves, and he knows that he will eventually have to face up to his parents’ calls. Harry thinks, in his more optimistic moments, that his mom would understand, most likely. She saw the picture on his phone, and she’s closer to Harry than his dad is. The angry buzzes of his phone on his desk remind him that his dad will not be as easy — he will want answers, he will want pay back, he will want a good reason as to why Harry won’t come home and carry on the family business. Harry isn’t even sure he wants to tell his dad about Louis. That relationship is something intensely private. His dad shouldn’t have a say in it. His dad wouldn’t understand how whole he feels when he’s with Louis, how touching Louis is like raising his hand to the warmth of a fire, or how he would give up everything good in his life because Louis is the best. Harry lays in his bed, a stress headache building in the back of his neck, and he realizes that home isn’t with his mom or his dad anymore. It is here: with his brothers, with the city, with Louis beside him. 

Home is the way that Louis smiles at him across the pillows in the morning, his cheekbones sharp against his fluffy hair, and the way that Louis curls into his chest at night. Home is pizza, late, just because they’re in love, just because Harry wants an excuse to watch Louis’ cheeks flush again. Home is watching Louis get goosebumps when they fuck, watching Louis squirm on his cock when he says  _ Wanna give you babies, wanna give you everything you want.  _ Home is Louis at his desk, Louis in his arms, Louis in his heart, always. College has, for the most part, been nothing but anxiety for Harry: his parents, the major he hates, the endless commitments, and the promises of “just one more week.” He’d only begun to feel that any of it was worthwhile when he realized that he could be building a life for himself and Louis. In the end, squeezing at the base of his neck, the decision is not such a hard one. 

Harry calls his mom, late, when he knows that she will not pick up her phone. His message is short, simple, said in a voice that is more rasp than sound from disuse:  _ Going to Madison tomorrow to spend the holidays with Louis, if he’ll have me.  _

***

The drive to Madison passes in a haze of farmland punctuated by sparsely dark, skeletal trees rising to the grey-blue sky. Niall drives with one hand on the wheel. The other, he alternates drumming on the console, tapping on his knee, and flickering the turn signal seconds before he changes into the other, equally empty lane. Snow blows, unbroken, across the highway, and Harry wonders if everywhere is this quiet or if this kind of silence is only possible in middle of nowhere-Minnesota and Wisconsin. They drive without speaking much, without littering the car with the stress of the past few months. It feels good to leave all of that behind at school. Niall’s jaw relaxes with each mile they put between themselves and college. By the time they get to the river that divides Minnesota and Wisconsin, Niall has begun half-laughing, half-grinning too hard to sing along to the Eagles he’s got playing from his iPhone. When they stop to get coffee, the air is crisp with fall and too-cold snow scent, and Niall puts his hands in his pockets and breathes deeply. 

Harry sits in the passenger seat and watches the trees, watches the fields, counts the miles to Madison like he could crumple the map and have Louis closer, now. Inexplicably, his phone silenced in his pocket, Harry feels calmer. It was the not-acting that made him feel like he was going to burst. Sitting beside Niall, the green signs counting down the distance, Madison drawing nearer with each Eagle’s song, Harry feels something settle in his chest, like a bird resting inside the warmth of its nest, finally, after a long journey. 

They separate in Eau Claire with a long, hard hug. Niall presses a  _ Be good to him,  _ into the juncture of Harry’s throat, and Harry’s breath hitches. He can’t voice it yet, doesn’t know if the words are solid or air yet, but he nods, his heart pressing into the back of his throat insistently. Even though he can’t say it, he can feel it vibrating in his chest, the knowledge that he will be good to Louis for as long as Louis will have him. Forever, if that’s possible. 

The rest of the drive to Madison passes in an afternoon that sends gold glaring off the snow until things settle to the color of a bruise. Rush hour traffic surrounds Harry: the honking, the weary faces in the cars next to him, another city that feels like Minneapolis enough to be almost-home, the specific, sharp relief of finding the neighborhood that Louis spoke about. Harry thinks that going home, even to a place that is not your home, is always the same. Wheels sound differently when you are in a neighborhood, and the lights stop being so bright. Haloed, caught between two streetlights, golden through the windows, the Tomlinson’s house rises like a study in warmth and welcome. There are the beginnings of snowmen in the front yard and a green wreath, thick with boughs and a plaid bow, hanging on the door. As Harry pulls into the driveway, he studies the light emanating from behind the front room’s curtains: someone must be home. 

Harry gets out of the car without grabbing his bags. He does not want to presume that he will be welcomed here, not by Louis or his mom. The walk up the driveway feels like being caught in an open field with lights glaring down on him; he isn’t sure what is okay and what he should cover up, what truths can be left here in the open safely. The neighborhood’s silence has depth and dimension; the entire world is echoing with his footsteps. Distantly, Harry worries that Louis’ mom will answer the door. He knows that she’s lovely, but he needs to speak to Louis, desperately. He has to tell him what he’s realized. Hands jammed in his pockets, long hair pulled back into a messy bun, Harry climbs the front steps with his heart beating in his neck. 

The door opens before Harry has a chance to knock. Louis looks sharp and lovely, captured in the hallway light. He has been with his family and the warmth, the happiness has sharpened his face in Harry’s mind, and made his eyes look bluer. His mouth, caught in the beginnings of what might be a smile, still draws Harry like a magnet. Like a starving man, Harry can feel himself physically frozen by the simple act of seeing Louis again. It has been two days, two unsure days, and Harry cannot find it in himself to feel shame or sorrow: this is exactly how Louis deserves to be greeted. If Harry had a kingdom, he thinks that he would lay it at Louis’ feet. Moments pass between them in studied silence. Harry’s only thought is: have you always been this large in my heart? 

Louis, a challenge in his eyes, whispers,  _ Harry Styles… tell me a secret.  _

_ I think about you all the time,  _ Harry says. The words turn to gravel in his throat and get caught, but he keeps talking,  _ I spent the last two days doing nothing but thinking about you, and I— I couldn’t go home, I couldn’t do anything but miss you, and think about what you said.  _ His heart feels caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. Everything narrows to the tilt of Louis’ mouth and the flush working its way up Harry’s cheeks from his neck. He is too hot.  _ I do, like.  _ Again, always, the words slip like water between his fingers. He knows what he wants to say, but the saying of it feels monumental. Looking at Louis while he says it might kill him, so Harry focuses on his hands, on the blue veins running beneath his too pale skin,  _ I’m not always healthy, but I want to be. I will be, for you.  _

Louis’ sharp inhale makes Harry look up. 

_ I might not be good at relationships,  _ in response to that, Louis’ mouth turns up at one corner,  _ but I know that you’re the person I’m supposed to be with. I know we’re young,  _ Harry shrugs, his backpack heavy against his back and his heart heavy in his chest, _ but I-- I want everything with you.  _

_ I won’t be your secret,  _ Louis says.  _ I won’t—  _

_ I’m never going to ask you to hide with me ever again,  _ Harry actively fights down the urge to touch the quivering line of Louis’ taut mouth. 

Stilling his trembling hands by pressing them against his stomach, Louis’ voice, watery, says,  _ What about your dad? _

Harry breathes out once before he says,  _ If my dad has a problem with me loving you, then I don’t care anymore.  _ A lump sits low in his throat, but Harry manages, _ I refuse to love you in secret. I won’t let him take you from me.  _

For a time measured only in the traitorously loud thudding of his anxious heart, Harry just tries to meet Louis’ clear, watery gaze. His mind feels, finally, like it has stopped running. The pressure at the back of his skull and in the lines of his neck has eased. 

Louis is the first to break their gaze. Small, insistent fingers find Harry’s,  _ C’mere.  _

Harry is breathless with it. Louis’ shoulder blades are sharp against the back of his shirt, and his profile is illuminated by the warm, golden light of the foyer. Harry thinks, unbidden, of all of the other times that he has been led by Louis: his fumbling hands, his trembling thighs, the delicate curve of his ankle fit to Harry’s mouth. The door closes behind them with a soft sounding  _ click,  _ and Harry is startled by the fingers at his shoulders, pushing his backpack to the floor, as he tries to catch them with his own, still their anxious progress. Harry feels caught out, left behind, swept up in the fastness of Louis’ touch and his own thudding heartbeat. Goosebumps erupt across his skin as Louis’ fingers skate up his arms, over his shoulders, and back to his cheeks. In an effort to slow everything down, Harry catches Louis’ fingers with his own. 

_ Ask me,  _ blue eyes pin Harry to the spot. 

The words take a moment to come with Louis so close and so sweet, his feet spread apart in grey woolen socks and the stretched edge of a t-shirt threatening to fall off his collarbone. Harry’s thumb moves of its own accord, back and forth over Louis’ hand,  _ Lou, tell me a secret.  _

_ I love you,  _ Louis whispers, his hands on the hinges of Harry’s jaw,  _ you’re in all of my dreams.  _

His heart is in his throat, but Harry still puts a hand under Louis’ bum to lift him off his feet, crowding him back against the wall, until they could be one person. They breathe together, in and out, for the space of a moment, and Louis’ hands are shaking against his face. It is a small thing, but Harry’s heart takes root, all the same. This is his person, this is the only person he has ever felt this  _ much  _ for. Louis’ hazy blue eyes and his chapped pink lips and the worn, stretched out neck of his t-shirt all only serve to make Harry want him more. 

They kiss tentatively first, the barest brushing of lips. Harry can feel himself inhale too sharply. The air gets caught in his chest, his fingers tightening on the back of Louis’ thighs and waist. Louis turns, just barely, the tip of his nose brushing Harry’s cheek. His body feels electric near Louis’. 

_ I’m not breakable,  _ Louis’ hands wind into his hair, caress the sensitive nape of his neck,  _ you know that.  _

Harry lets the feelings in his chest well up and fuel the next kisses. He bites at Louis’ lower lip, and smiles when he feels the smaller boy try to wiggle closer in his arms. They kiss open and closed-mouthed, biting and licking until the entire world has dissolved into the insistent press of Louis’ cock against his stomach and his own, unconscious rocking into Louis’ bum. He imagines them back in his dorm room, Louis spreading his legs to fit in Harry’s lap at his desk, the way he’d huffed and sighed when he’d taken Harry’s cock. The rush of, finally, laying his out over the desk and fucking him. 

For a single split second, Harry thinks about meeting Louis’ mom like this: his hands itching for Louis’ warm skin, his cock hardening against Louis’ bum. He is breathless when he laughs into the warmth of Louis’ soft hair,  _ I don’t want your mom to meet me like this.  _

Against his scalp, Louis’ nails bite, briefly, before he’s whispering,  _ Like what?  _

Harry nudges his hips against Louis’ bum, fisting a hand in his shirt,  _ Hard for you.  _ The embarrassment of saying it zings pleasantly down Harry’s spine and settles in his groin 

Louis kisses his neck, just once,  _ Yeah?  _

_ Wanna be inside of you,  _ Harry murmurs,  _ Please.  _

They don’t make it any further than the leather couch in the living room. For a moment, while they get rearranged with Louis in his lap, Harry just looks: Louis has bags under his eyes, and his pink lips are chapped. His ears, his nose, the tips of his cheeks are rosy with the heat and when he smiles up at Harry, his eyelashes kiss his cheekbones. His thighs are strong and spread, the insides fit for the grasp of Harry’s fingers and the bite of his mouth. Louis’ bum feels like a revelation, even after two days. Harry can’t resist squeezing it between his hands, just to feel the way that Louis’ cock perks up, a darker grey spot on the front of his sweats. 

_ You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,  _ Harry breathes, a hand slipping under the back of Louis’ thin shirt to the dewey dip of his lower back. 

Louis blushes, silent and pleased. His clever fingers raise goosebumps on the back of Harry’s neck. 

_ C’mere,  _ Harry is the one to ask this time. They kiss, slick and open-mouthed, while Harry fits his hand back to the curvature of Louis’ waist and hips, measures them by the length of his palm and the breadth of grasp. His cock reacts to the sharp pebbles of Louis’ nipples, and his thumbs settle there, hips and nipples, and the welcome reminder of how Louis looks when he’s impatient to be made love to. Louis whimpers into his neck, a hand fisted in the neck of his t-shirt until Harry slips a hand down to the supple skin of his bum, the cleft of his arse. 

_ Yeah,  _ Louis whispers, biting at Harry’s neck, his hands tracing lightning up and under Harry’s shirt to his shoulders. 

Harry feels safe in assuming that they don’t have lube anywhere near the couch, but his hands are literally itching, exploring and petting, at the sweet clench of Louis’ hole and lower, to the sensitive skin of his taint. Louis moans, nails sinking into Harry’s shoulders when Harry gets a hand around his balls. 

_ C’mon, baby,  _ Harry whispers. He leans back on the couch, pulling Louis down with him. They work together, two pairs of shaking hands, to get Louis out of his sweats and to get the button and zipper down on Harry’s jeans. As soon as his cock is free, Louis has his hand wrapped around it, surging up for Harry’s mouth, rocking back and forth over his thigh. Distantly, Harry thinks that he could die happily here: a hand on Louis’ bum and a hand on his cock, Louis’ teeth in his lower lip, the sun at their backs as they grind together on the couch. Louis brings his thumb up and over the head of Harry’s cock, and he bucks up, jostling them so that Louis’ arms wind around his neck. 

With both of his hands free, he can grasp Louis’ bum and move him into place. He’s sitting on Harry’s cock, rocking back and forth, his hips rabbiting as Harry rubs back and forth over his hole. Harry missed this, even for the three days that he didn’t have it. Louis is so responsive, and he is so expressive: his lower lip between his teeth when he situates himself in the exact right spot for the friction on his thick, wet cock, and the furrow of his brow at the promise of Harry’s finger just barely breaching his hole. He is clean and soft here, hot on the inside. Harry can’t stop himself from whispering,  _ You feel so good, darling.  _

Louis whines, high in the back of his throat,  _ Couldn’t stop thinking about you inside of me.  _

_ Yeah?  _

Their cocks slide together, wet with precome, and Louis murmurs,  _ Yeah, wanted -- wanted to be held down and kissed and taken…  _ Harry fucks up, rocking them into a new position, Louis’ voice breaking as he exhales,  _ taken care of.  _

_ I’m here now,  _ Harry pants into the crown of his head, finger slipping into his hole further,  _ I’m right here.  _

After a time measured only in friction and the taste of Louis’ tongue, they work each other off. Louis’ forehead furrows when he comes in exactly the way that Harry loves, and he can feel himself smiling into their kisses, into the warmth and security of their love. He only comes when Louis blinks up at him, owlish and sated, a small smile on his lips. His voice is quiet, faint, but he’s breathless and warm, squirming on Harry’s lap until he can get a hand down to Harry’s cock. Louis whispers,  _ Missed you. Love you,  _ and Harry comes. 

Louis is moving the curls off of his forehead, when Harry feels like he can open his eyes again. Bright and golden and soft-limbed, Louis smiles. Harry tightens his hands on Louis’ sides. The feeling of  _ home  _ settles heavily in his chest. Unbidden, Harry imagines their future: the sway of Louis’ hips as he dances around the kitchen, the way his voice will break when he says his vows, and the messy haired, bright-eyed man who will slip into the tub across from him after a long day of nursing. Harry grins, his eyes finding Louis’. 

Nearly silently, Harry whispers,  _ Hi, Lou.  _

Louis, tugging at a curl on Harry’s forehead, a smile in his voice, responds,  _ Tell me a secret, Harry Styles.  _

  
  



End file.
